0=       BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

AND 

OTHER  MARTIAL  INTERLUDES 


SIX    ONE -ACT    DRAMAS 


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ALLISON'S  LAD 

AND 
OTHER  MARTIAL  INTERLUDES 

Being  six  one-act  dramas 

set  forth  by 

BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 


Special  Edition  Imprinted  for 
WALTER  H.  BAKER  COMPANY 

DRAMATIC    PUBLICATIONS 

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Copyright,  iqio,  by 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Made  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

THE   LIVING  MEMORY 

OF 

EVELYN  GREENLEAF  SUTHERLAND 


2114919 


CONTENTS 


Allison's  Lad 

The  Hundredth  Trick 

The  Weakest  Link  . 

The  Snare  and  the  Fowler 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate 

The  Dark  of  the  Dawn 


I 

33 

67 

lOI 

141 

175 


ALLISON'S  LAD 


THE  PEOPLE 

Colonel  Sir  William  Strickland  ^ 

Captain  George  Bowyer  I      r   •     ^ 

„  ^  of  the  Cava- 

Lieutenant  Robert  Goring  y  .. 

Francis  Hopton  )  gentlemen 

Tom  Winwood     j  volunteers  J 

Colonel  John  Drummond,  of  the  Roundhead  party 


THE  PLACE 

The  village  of  Faringford,  in  the  western  midlands 
of  England 

THE  PERIOD 
The  close  of  the  Second  Civil  War,  autumn  1648 


ALLISON'S  LAD 

/T  is  midnight  of  a  cheerless  autumn  day,  with  a 
drizzle  of  slow  rain.  In  an  upper  chamber  of 
the  village  inn  of  Faringford,  lit  by  guttering 
candles  and  a  low  fire  that  smolders  on  the  hearth,  are 
gathered  five  gentlemen  of  the  Cavalier  party,  made 
prisoners  that  moi-ning  in  a  disastrous  skirmish. 

In  a  great  arm-chair  by  the  hearth  (at  stage  left)  sits 
their  leader,  SiR  WiLLlAM  Strickland.  He  is  a  tall, 
keen  man  of  middle  age,  of  the  finest  type  of  his  party, 
a  gallant  officer  and  a  high-souled  gentleman.  He  has 
received  a  dangerous  wound  in  the  side,  which  has  been 
but  hastily  dressed,  and  he  noiu  leans  heavily  in  his 
chair,  with  eyes  closed,  almost  oblivious  of  what  goes 
on  about  him. 

His  captain,  and  friend  of  long  standing,  George 
BowYER^  a  sanguine,  stalwart  gentleman  of  Strick- 
land's own  years,  has  planted  himself  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  where  he  is  philosophically  smoking  at  a 
long  pipe,  while  he  watches  the  play  at  the  rude  table, 
which  stands  at  the  (stage)  right. 

Round  the  table,  on  rough  stools,  GoRiNG,  HoPTON, 
and  WiNWOOD  sit  dicing  and  smoking,  ivith  a  jug  of 
ale  between  them  for  the  cheering  of  their  captivity. 
Goring  is  a  siuaggering  young  soldier  of  fortune; 
HoPTON,  a  gentleman  of  the  Temple,  turned  soldier, 

3 


4  ALLISON'S  LAD 

with  something  of  the  city  fop  still  to  be  traced  in  his 
bearing.  He  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  about  his 
forehead  a  blood-flecked  bandage.  WiNWOOD,  the 
third  gamester,  is  a  mere  lad  of  seventeen,  smooth- 
faced, comely,  with  a  gallant  carriage. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  men  play  but  half-heartedly. 
Indeed,  the  cheerlessness  of  the  midnight  hour,  in  the 
dim  chamber,  with  the  rain  tapping  on  the  mullioned 
windows,  may  well  bring  home  to  them  the  dubious- 
ness of  their  captive  state  and  set  them  to  anxious 
question  of  what  the  dawn  may  have  in  store.  GoRiNG, 
of  the  three  the  most  hardened  and  professionally  a 
soldier,  is  the  first  to  speak,  as  he  throws  the  dice. 

Goring. 
Cinq  and  tray! 

WiNWOOD. 

The  main  is  yours,  Rob  Goring. 

Goring. 
That's  a  brace  of  angels  you  owe  me,  Frank  Hopton, 

HOPTON. 

Go  ask  them  of  the  scurvy  Roundhead  had  the 
stripping  of  my  pockets. 

BOWYER 

(With  the  good-humored  contempt  of  the  professional 
for  the  amateur). 

The  more  fool  you  to  bear  gold  about  you  when  you 
ride  into  a  fight! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  5 

WiNWOOD. 

A  devil  fly  off  with  the  money!  The  rebels  have 
taken  my  horse — a  plague  rot  them! 

Goring. 

Faith,  I'd  care  not,  if  the  prick-eared  brethren  had 
not  got  me,  and  got  me  fast.  'Tis  your  throw,  Tom 
Winwood. 

[WiNWOOD  takes  the  dice-box,  but  pauses, 
anxiously  awaiting  an  answer  to  Hopton's 
next  question. 

HOPTON. 

What  think  you,  Captain  Bowyer?  Are  they  like 
to  admit  us  speedily  to  ransom? 

[Bowyer  shakes  his  head,  smiling,  half  indif- 
ferent. 

Goring. 

You're  swift  to  grumble,  Frank.  You've  not  been 
yet  ten  hours  a  prisoner.  Throw,  Tom,  a  wildfire 
burn  you! 

Winwood. 

There,    then!     And    vengeance    profitable    gaming!  - 
We  can't  muster  four  farthings  amongst  us. 

Goring. 

Curse  it,  man,  we  play  for  love  and  sport!  I've 
never  yet  had  enough  of  casting  the  dice.     Look  you, 

[Casts  the  dice. 
I  better  you  by  three. 


6  ALLISON'S  LAD 

WiNWOOD. 

On  my  life,  no!     I  threw  a  tray  and  quatre. 

Goring. 

Go  to  with  your  jesting!     You  mean  a  tray  and 
deuce. 

WiNWOOD. 

Tray  and  quatre  I  threw. 

Goring 

(Starts  to  his  feet,  with  his  hand  leaping  to  draiu  the 
sword  which,  as  a  prisoner,  he  no  longer  wears). 

Will  you  give  me  the  lie  in  my  teeth? 

WiNWOOD 

(P luckily  springs  to  his  feet,  with  the  same  impulse). 

Aye,  if  you  say  I  threw 

[At  the  sound  of  the  angry  voices  and  of  the 
stools  thrust  back,  Strickland  opens  his 
eyes  and  glances  toward  the  brawlers. 

Bowyer 
(Laying  a  heavy  hand  upon  a  shoulder  of  each). 

Hold  your  tongues,  you  shuttle-headed  fools! 

[  Thrusts  Goring  down  into  his  seat. 

HOPTON. 

You'll  rouse  the  Colonel,  and  he  ill  and  wounded. 
Sit  you  down  again! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  7 

WiNWOOD 

(Dropping  sullenly  into  his  place). 
Yet  'twas  a  tray  and  quatre. 

Goring. 

Frank,  you  saw  the  cast.     A  tray  and  deuce,  and  I 
will  so  maintain  it. 

[  The  three  at  table  talk  heatedly  in  dumb-show, 
HoPTON  playing  the  peace-maker,  until  at 
last  he  wins  the  disputants  to  shake  hands. 
Meantime  Bowyer  has  gone  anxiously  to 
Strickland's  side. 

Bowyer. 

How  is  it  with  you.  Will,  old  lad?    Your  wound  is 
easier  ? 

Strickland. 

My  wound?     'Tis  nothing,  I  tell  you. 

Bowyer. 

Why,   then,    take   heart!      Matters   might   well   be 
worse. 

\He  takes  a  candle  from  the  chimneypiece,  and 
relights  his  pipe. 

Strickland. 

Cold  comfort,  George! 

Bowyer. 

We  are  defeated,  prisoners,  yes,  I  grant  you.     Yet 
we  have  fought  our  best.    And  for  the  future — ^by  this 


8  ALLISON'S  LAD 

light,  our  enemies  have  used  us  handsomely  so   far! 
No  doubt  they'll  speedily  accept  of  ransom. 

Strickland 
(fVith   eyes  fixed  on  Win  WOOD  j. 
From  my  heart  I  hope  so! 

BOWYER. 

Aye,  to  be  taken  thus  in  his  first  fight,  'tis  pity  for 
little  Tom  Winwood. 

Strickland. 
You  say 

BoWYER. 

'Tis  of  the  lad  yonder  that  you  are  thinking. 

Strickland. 
Yes.     I  was  thinking  of  Allison's  lad. 

[As  the  result  of  Hopton's  persuasion^  Win- 
wood  at  that  moment  is  most  heartily  drink- 
ing fl  health  to  Goring. 

BoWYER. 

My  cousin  Allison's  boy.  Look  but  upon  him  now! 
A  half  minute  agone  he  and  Rob  Goring  were  ready 
to  fly  at  each  other's  throats,  and  now  they  drink  good- 
/fellowship  together.  Faith,  by  times  young  Tom  is 
monstrous  like  unto  his  father. 

Strickland. 
Your  pardon!     Tom  is  his  mother's  son,  Allison's 
lad,  every  inch  of  him — every  thought  of  him.    There's 
no  taint  of  the  father  in  the  boy. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  9 

BOWYER. 

Yes.  I  wonder  not  that  you  speak  thus  of  Jack 
Winwood.  'Twas  a  damnable  trick  he  served  you, 
when  he  won  Allison  from  you  with  his  false  tales. 

Strickland. 

Aye,  and  well-nigh  broke  her  heart  thereafter  with 
his  baseness.  You  stood  beside  me,  George,  there  at 
Edgehill,  when  we  looked  upon  the  death-wound — in 
his  back! 

BoWYER. 

Poor  wretch!  Gallant  enough  at  the  charge,  but  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he'd  no  more  courage 
than 

Strickland. 

He  was  a  coward,  and  false  from  first  to  last.  For 
God's  sake,  George,  never  say  that  boy  is  like  his 
father!     For  his  mother's  sake 

BoWYER. 

Aye,  'twould  go  near  to  killing  Allison,  should 
Tom  prove  craven. 

Strickland. 

He'll  never  prove  craven.  He's  his  mother's  son. 
Let  be,  George!    I'm  in  no  mood  for  speech. 

[BowYER  goes  back  to  the  table,  where  Win- 
wood,  in  the  last  minutes,  has  played  with 
notable  listlessness  and  indifference. 


lo  ALLISON'S  LAD 

HOPTON. 

*Tis  your  cast,  Tom. 

WiNWOOD. 

Nay,  but  I'm  done! 

Goring. 
Will  you  give  over? 

Win  WOOD. 
But  for  a  moment.     My  pipe  is  out. 

[Rises,  and  goes  to  Strickland. 

HoPTON. 

Come,  Captain!     In  good  time!     Bear  a  hand  with 
us. 

[BowYER  sits  in  Winwood's  place  at  table,  and 
dices. 

WiNWOOD. 

You  called  me,  sir? 

Strickland. 

I  did  not  call,  but  I  was  thinking  of  you.     Sit  you 
down ! 

[WiNWOOD  sits  on  a  stool  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hearth,  and  cleans  and  fills  his  pipe. 
I   watched  you   to-day,   Tom.     You  bore  yourself 
fairly  in  the  fight.     I  was  blithe  to  see  it. 

WiNWOOD. 
God  willing,  you'll  see  better  in  the  next  fight,  sir. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  ii 

Strickland. 

Go  to!  You  did  all  that  might  be  asked  of  a  youth 
for  the  first  time  under  fire. 

Win  WOOD. 
Ah,  but  'twas  my  second  time  under  fire,  sir. 

Strickland. 
Second  time?    How's  that,  my  boy? 

WiNWOOD. 

Last  June,  faith,  I  was  at  Bletchingley  when  we 
held  the  house  four  hours  against  the  rebels,  my  school- 
fellow, Lord  Bletchingley,  and  I,  and  the  servants.  I 
came  by  a  nick  in  the  arm  there.  I  still  have  the  scar 
to  show. 

[Rises  eagerly,  and  puts  back  his  sleeve  to  show 
the  scar. 

Strickland 
(Lightly). 
'Twas  right  unfriendly  of  you,  Tom,  to  keep  me  so 
in  the  dark,  touching  your  exploits. 

WiNWOOD 
(Half  embarrassed  with  the  sense  of  having  said  too 
much,  turns  from  Strickland  and  lights  his  pipe 
with  the  candle  that  he  takes  from  the  chimney- 
piece)  . 

Truth,  sir,  I  was  shamed  to  speak  to  you  of  Bletch- 
ingley. 


12  ALLISON'S  LAD 

Strickland. 
Shamed?    What  do  you  talk  of? 

WiNWOOD. 

Why,  our  fight  at  Bletchingley,  it  must  seem  mere 
child's  play  unto  you,  a  tried  soldier,  my  father's  old 
comrade. 

[He  speaks  the  word  "  father "  with   all  the 
proper  pride  that  a  son  should  show. 

Strickland. 

But  your  mother.  She  would  have  been  proud  to 
know  that  you  had  borne  you  well  in  the  fight.  You 
should  have  told  her,  Tom. 

WiNWOOD 

(In  swift  alarm). 
Told  my  mother?    Why,  sir,  she — she  would  have 
been  troubled.     Perchance  she  would  not  have  heard 
to  my  going  out  for  the  King  with  you,  because  of 
Bletchingley. 

Strickland. 
Why  because  of  Bletchingley? 

WiNWOOD. 

Why?  Well,  you  see,  sir — sure,  'twas  there  I  had 
this  wound. 

[Reseats  himself  on  the  stool  opposite  Strick- 
land. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  13 

Strickland. 

And  for  that  you  think  she  would  have  kept  you 
from  the  field  ?  Lad,  you  do  not  altogether  know  your 
mother. 

[BoWYER,  at  the  end  of  a  talk  in  dumb-show 
with  Goring  and  Hopton^  has  risen,  and 
now  goes  out  at  the  single  door,  wide  and 
heavy,  that  leads  from  the  chamber  (center, 
back)  to  the  outer  corridor.  At  the  sound 
of  the  closing  of  the  door,  Strickland 
starts. 
What  was  that  ? 

Goring 

(Rises  and  salutes). 
'Twas   Captain   Bowyer,   sir,   went   into   the   outer 
room  to  speak  with  the  sentries, 

l^Reseats  himself. 

HOPTON. 

Heaven  send  he  get  them  to  talk!  I'd  fain  know 
what's  to  become  of  us. 

Goring 

(Stretching  himself). 
Go  sleep,  like  a  wise  man,  and  cease  your  fretting! 
\He  presently  rests  his  head  on  his  folded  arms, 
which   he  places  on   the  table,  and  goes  to 
sleep. 

Strickland. 
Sound  advice,  Tom!     You  were  best  take  it. 


14  ALLISON'S  LAD 

WiNWOOD 
(Smoking  throughout). 
Sleep?     How  can  I,  sir?     I  would  it  were  day.     I 
hate  this  odd  and  even  time  o'  night.    What  think  you 
will  come  of  us? 

Strickland. 

What  matters  it,  boy?  We  have  fought  our  fight, 
and  you  bore  yourself  gallantly,  Tom. 

WiNWOOD. 

Easy  to  do,  sir,  in  the  daylight,  with  your  comrades 
about  you,  but  this — this  waiting  in  the  dark!  God! 
I  would  it  were  day.  At  two  in  the  morning  I've  no 
more  courage  than 

Strickland 
(In  sharp  terror). 
Tom!    Hold  your  peace. 

[BowYER  comes  again  into  the  room.    HoPTON 
springs  eagerly  to  his  feet. 

HoPTON. 
What  news.  Captain? 

BoWYER. 

Bad.    They're  quitting  the  village  this  same  hour. 

Goring. 
A  retreat  by  night? 

[Rises  and  confers  in  dumb-show  with  HoPTON. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  15 

BOWYER. 

Your  wound  cannot  endure  this  hast}'  moving,  Will. 
In  mere  humanity  they  must  let  you  rest  here  at  the 
inn.     You'll  give  them  your  parole. 

Strickland. 

You'll  talk  to  our  captors  of  paroles,  after  so  many 
paroles  have  been  broken  by  men  that  are  a  shame 
unto  our  party? 

BoWYER. 

But  you  are  known  for  a  man  of  honor.  And  by 
happy  chance  the  colonel  in  command  of  these  rebels 
has  come  hither  within  the  hour.  He  will  listen  to 
me.    I  knew  him  of  old — one  John  Drummond. 

WiNWOOD. 

Drummond ! 

[His  hand  clenches  convulsively  upon  his  pipe, 
which  snaps  sharply  under  the  pressure. 

[Colonel  Drummond  enters  the  room.  He  is 
a  grave,  stern  gentleman  of  middle  age,  in 
military  dress,  with  cuirass,  and  sword  at 
side.  WiNWOOD^  at  his  entrance,  shifts  his 
position  so  that  his  back  is  toward  him,  and 
sits  thus,  with  head  bent  and  hands  tight 
clenched. 

BowYER. 

In  good  time,  Colonel  Drummond! 


i6  ALLISON'S  LAD 

Drummond 
(Throughout  with  the  fine  dignity  of  a  soldier  and  a 
gentleman). 
I  fear  not,  Captain.    There  are  three  of  you  here  in 
presence  with  whom  I  must  have  a  word. 

[Seats  himself  at  table. 
Lieutenant  Goring! 

GORIXG. 

(With  some  swagger). 
Well,  sir? 

Drummond. 

At  Raglan  Castle  you  gave  your  promise  never  again 
to  bear  arms  against  the  Parliament.  Now  that  you 
are  taken  with  arms  in  your  hands,  have  you  aught  to 
say  in  your  defense? 

GrORING. 

Before  I  gave  that  promise  to  your  damned  usurping 
Parliament,  I  swore  to  serve  the  King.  I  keep  the 
earlier  oath. 

Drummond. 

And  for  that  you  will  answer  in  this  hour.  Now 
you,  Mr.  Hopton! 

Bowyer. 

Frank  Hopton,  too? 

Drummond. 
What  defense  is  yours  for  your  breach  of  parole  ? 


ALLISON'S  LAD  17 

HOPTON. 

It  was  forced  from  me.     A  forced  promise,  faith, 
'tis  void  in  the  courts  of  law. 

Drummond. 
It  well  may  be,  but  not  in  a  court  of  war. 

Strickland. 
George!     Did  he  say  there  were — three  had  broken 
faith? 

Drummond. 
And  now  for  you,  Thomas  Winwood! 

[WiNWOOD  starts  to  his  feet,  but  does  not  face 
Drummond. 

BOWYER. 

Tom!     Not  you! 

Drummond. 

Last  June  at  Bletchingley,  you,  sir,  gave  to  me  per- 
sonally your  word  of  honor  never  again   to  take  up 

arms 

Strickland 
(Rising,   for    the    moment    uniuounded,   with    all    his 
strength). 
Face  that  scoundrel!     Face  him  and  tell  him  that 
he  lies! 

Winwood 
(Unwillingly  turns  and  faces  Drummond^  but  stam- 
mers when  he  tries  to  speak). 
I— I 


1 8  ALLISON'S  LAD 

Strickland. 
Speak  out ! 

Drummond. 
Well,  Mr.  Winwood  ? 

Strickland. 

Answer!  The  truth!  The  truth!  Have  you 
broken  your  parole? 

Winwood 

(Desperately  at  bay,  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  his 
comely  young  face  for  the  moment  the  face  of  his 
coward  and  trickster  father). 

God's  death!  I've  done  no  more  than  a  hundred 
others  have  done.  They've  not  kept  faith  with  us,  the 
cursed  rebels.  Why  the  fiend's  name  should  we  keep 
faith  with  them?  It  was  a  forced  promise.  And  the 
King,  I  was  fain  to  serve  him,  as  my  father  served  him, 
like  my  father 

Strickland. 

Like  your  father! 

\^He  staggers  where  he  stands,  a  wounded  man, 
a  sick  man — mortally  sick  at  heart. 
Allison's  lad! 

BOWYER 

(Catching  Strickland  as  he  staggers). 
Will! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  19 

Strickland 
(Masters  himself  and  stands  erect). 
Let  be !     Colonel  Drummond,  I  ask  your  pardon  for 
my  words,   a  moment   since.     I   could   not   believe — 

I  could  not  believe 

[He  sinks  upon  his  chair. 
He  is  his  father's  son,  George!     His  father's  son! 

DRirMMOND. 

Come  here,  Winwood ! 

[Heavily  Winwood  goes  across  the  room  and 
halts  by  the  table,  but  throughout  he  keeps 
his  dazed  and  miserable  eyes  on  Strickland. 
You  realize  well,  the  three  of  you,  that  by  the  break- 
ing of  your  paroles  you  have  forfeited  your  lives  unto 
the  Parliament. 

HOPTON. 

Our  lives?     You've  no  warrant 


Drummond 

(Laying  his   hand  upon   the  hilt   of  his  sword). 

I  have  good  warrant — here.  I  was  minded  first  to 
stand  the  three  of  you  against  the  wall  in  the  court 
below  and  have  you  shot,  in  the  presence  of  your  mis- 
guided followers. 

BOWYER. 

Colonel  Drummond,  I  do  protest! 


20  ALLISON'S  LAD 

Drummond. 
You  waste  your  words,  sir.     This  hour  I  purpose 
to  give  a  lesson  to  all  the  promise-breakers  of  your 
party. 

Goring. 
You  purpose,  then,  to  butcher  us,  all  three? 

Drummond. 
Your  pardon!     Two  of  you  I  shall  admit  to  mercy. 
The  third 

HOPTON. 

Well!     Which  of  us  is  to  be  the  third? 

Drummond. 
You  may  choose  by  lot  which  one  of  you  shall  suf- 
fer.    You  have  dice  here.     Throw,  and  he  who  throws 
lowest 

Hopton 
(With  a  burst  of  half  hysterical  laughter  J. 
Heaven's  light,  Rob,  for  once  ye'll  have  enough  of 
casting  the  dice! 

Drummond. 
Winwood,  you  are  the  youngest.     You  shall  throw 
first.     Winwood ! 

[Winwood  stands  as  if  dazed,  his  eyes  still  on 
Strickland. 

Goring. 
Are  you  gone  deaf,  Tom  Winwood  ? 


ALLISON'S  LAD  21 

WiNWOOD 

(Thrusts  out  a  groping  hand). 
I — I Give  me  the  dice! 

HOPTON 

(Putting   the    dice-box   into    Winwood's    hand). 
Here!     Be  quick! 

\^A  moment's  pause,  while  Winwood,  with 
tiuitching  face,  shakes  the  box  and  shakes 
again. 

Goring. 
For  God's  love,  throw! 

WiNWOOD 

(Throws,  uncovers  dice,  and  averts  his  eyes). 
What  is  it? 

Drummond. 
Seven  is  your  cast.    You,  Hopton ! 

[Feverishly  Hopton  snatches  the  box,  shakes, 
and  casts  quickly. 
Eleven ! 

Hopton 

(Almost  hysterically). 

God  be  thanked  for  good  luck !     God  be  thanked ! 

Goring. 
Damn  you !     Hold  your  tongue ! 

[Hopton  snatches  a  cup  from   the  table  and 
drinks  thirstily.     GoRiNG  throws  and  holds 
dice  for  a  moment  covered. 
It's  between  us  now,  Tom! 


22  ALLISON'S  LAD 

WiNWOOD 

(Wiping  his  forehead  with   his  sleeve). 
Yes. 

[Goring  uncovers  the  dice. 

Drummond. 
Eight ! 

Goring 
(With  a  long  breath  of  relief). 
Ah! 

Drummond 

(Rising). 
The  lot  has  fallen  upon  you,  Mr.  Winwood. 

WiNWOOD. 

I  am — ^at  your  disposal,  sir. 

Drummond. 
You  have  ten  minutes  in  which  to  make  you  ready. 

Goring. 
Ten  minutes! 

[Winwood  sinks  heavily  into  his  old  seat  at 
table.  Presently  he  draws  to  him  the  dice 
and  box,  and  mechanically  throws  again  and 
again. 

BOWYER 

(Intercepting  Drummond,  as  he  turns  to  leave  the 
room). 
You  shall  listen  to  me,  Drummond.     The  boy's  my 
kinsman.     He 


ALLISON'S  LAD  23 

Drummond. 
Stand  aside,  George  Bowyer! 

[He  goes  out  of  the  room. 

Bowyer 
(Following  Drummond  out). 
Yet  you  shall  listen!     Drummond!     Listen  to  me! 

HOPTON. 

But  'tis  mere  murder.     'Tis  against  all  law. 

Goring. 

Will  you  prattle  of  law  to  Cromwell's  men? 

[Comes   to    table   and   lays   a   hand   on   WlN- 
wood's  shoulder. 
Tom,  lad,  I  would  we  could  help  you. 

WiNWOOD. 

I've  thrown  the  double  six — twice.  'Tis  monstrous 
droll,  eh,  Rob?  Before — I  could  throw  no  higher  than 
seven — no  higher  than  seven ! 

[His  voice  rises  higher  and  higher j  and  breaks 
into  shrill  laughter. 

Goring. 

Steady!     Steady,  lad! 

[Strickland  looks  up,  as  if  rousing  from  a 
trance. 

Hopton 
(Hastily  fills  a  cup  and  offers  it  to  WlNWOOD^. 
Here,  Tom,  drink  this  down. 


24  ALLISON'S  LAD 

WiNWOOD 

(Snatches  the  cup  and  starts  to  drink,  but  in  the  act 
looks  up  and  reads  in  his  comrades'  faces  the  fear 
that  is  on  them,  that  he  is  about  to  disgrace  the  col- 
ors that  he  wears.     He  sets  down  the  cup). 

You — you    think Will    you — leave    me — for 

these  minutes?     A'  God's  name,  let  me  be! 

[HoPTON  and  Goring  draw  away  to  the  win- 
doiv  and  stand  watching  WiNWOOD 
anxiously.  He  has  taken  up  the  dice-box, 
and  again  is  mechanically  casting  the  dice. 

HoPTON. 

How  will  he  bear  himself  yonder? 

Goring. 
You  mean 

HoPTON. 

There  in  the  courtyard,  when  they 

Goring. 
Speak  lower! 

Strickland 
(Rises  with  effort,  crosses,  and  lays  his  hand  on  Win- 
wood's  shoulder). 
Tom! 

WiNWOOD 

(Starting  up,  furiously). 
You're  ashamed  of  me!     You're  ashamed!     Don't 
pity  me !     Let  me  be !     Curse  you,  let  me  be ! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  25 

Strickland 
(Sternly). 
Tom!     Look  at  me! 

WiNWOOD 

(Turns  defiantly,  meets  Strickland's  eyes,  and  des- 
perately clings  to  him). 
I  can't!     I  can't!     If  they'll  wait  till  it's  light — but 

now — in  the  dark Make  them  wait  till  morning! 

I  can't  bear  it!     I  can't  bear  it! 

Strickland. 

Be  still !     You  must  face  it,  and  face  it  gallantly. 

WiNWOOD 

(Stands  erect,  fighting  hard  for  self-control). 
Gallantly.     Yes.     My  father — he  died  for  the  King. 
I   mustn't   disgrace  him.     I   must  bear  myself  as   he 
would  have  done.     I 

Strickland. 
Don't  speak  of  him !     Think  on  your  mother. 

WiNWOOD. 

Must  you  tell  her — why  they  shot  me?  She 
would  think  of  it — of  that  broken  promise — as  a  woman 
might.  God's  life !  Why  will  you  judge  me  so  ?  My 
father   would    have   understood. 

Strickland. 
Yes.     He  would  have  understood  you  well. 


26  ALLISON'S  LAD 

WiNWOOD. 

What   do   you   mean?     I'm   a  coward — a  promise- 
breaker.    You  think  that.    But  my  father — he  died  for 

the  King.     He 

[In  Strickland's  face  he  reads  that  of  which 
in  all  these  years  he  has  been  kept  in  igno- 
rance. 
How  did  my  father  die? 

Strickland. 
Not  now,  Tom ! 

[BowYER.  comes  again  into  the  room. 

WiNWOOD 

(Almost  beside  himself). 
Answer  me!  Answer  me!  Bowyer!  You're  my 
cousin.  Tell  me  the  truth!  As  God  sees  us!  How 
did  my  father  die?  How  did  my  father  live?  You 
won't  answer?  You've  lied!  You've  lied!  All  of 
you — all  these  years!  He  was  a  coward.  You  don't 
deny  it!  A  coward — a  false  coward — and  I'm  his 
eon!     I'm  his  son! 

\Sinks  upon  a  stool,  by  the  table,  with  face  hid- 
den, and  breaks  into  rending  sobs. 

Bowyer. 
Will!     Will!     You  can  bear  no  more. 

Strickland 
(Shakes  off  Bowyer's  arm  and  goes  to  Win  WOOD  j. 
Stand  up!     Stand  up!     You  are  your  mother's  son 
as  well  as  his! 


ALLISON'S  LAD  27 

WiNWOOD 

(Rising  blindly,  as  if  Strickland's  voice  alone  had 
power  to  lift  him). 

A  coward !     You  see.     Like  him.     And  there  in  the 
courtyard Ah,  God!     I'll  break!     I'll  break! 

Strickland. 

You  will  not.     For  her  sake — for  her  blood  that  is 
in  yxDu — ^Allison's  lad ! 

WiNWOOD 

(With  slow  comprehension) . 
You — loved  her! 

Strickland. 

Yes.     And  love  that  part  of  her  that  is  in  you.   And 
know  that  you  will  bear  you  well  unto  the  end. 

WiNWOOD. 

I'll — I'll It's  not   the  death.     It's   not   that. 

It's  the  moment — before  the  bullet God!     If  I 

fail— if  I  fail 

Strickland. 
You  will  not  fail. 

WiNWOOD. 

You  believe  that?     You  can  believe  that  of  me? 

Strickland. 
I  believe  that,  Tom. 


28  ALLISON'S  LAD 

BOWYER. 

Will!     The  ten  minutes  are  ended. 

Strickland. 
So  soon !     So  soon ! 

BoWYER. 

Drummond  will  suflFer  me  be  with  him  to  the  last. 
Come,  Tom,  my  lad ! 

l^Goes  up,  and  from  a  chair  beside  the  door  takes 
a  heavy  military  cloak — which  shall  there- 
after serve  as  Winwood's  shroud.  He 
holds  it  throughout  so  that  WiNWOOD  may 
not  mark  it. 

"     WiNWOOD 

(Takes  his  hat,  and  turns  to  Goring  and  Hopton, 
with  a  pitiful  effort  at  jauntiness). 
God  be  wi'  you,  boys ! 

[Crosses,  and  holds  out  his  hand  to  Strick- 
land. 
Sir  William!     I'll — try.     But — can't  you  help  me? 

Can't  you  help  me  when 

{Clings  to  Strickland's  hand. 

Strickland. 

I  can  help  you.     You  shall  bear  you  as  becomes  her 
son. 

Winwood. 
Aye,  sir. 


ALLISON'S  LAD  29 

Strickland. 
And  I  shall  know  it.     God  keep  you ! 

WiNWOOD 

(Faces  about,  to  Bowyer^. 

I  am  ready,  sir, 

[Goes  to  door,  and  on  the  threshold  wheels  and 
stands  at  salute. 
You  shall  have  news  of  me,  Sir  William! 

[WiNWOOD  goes  out,  and  BoWYER^  with   the 
cloak,  follows  after  him. 

HOPTON. 

What  did  he  mean? 

Goring. 

He'll  die  bravely,  poor  lad,  I'll  swear  to  that! 

[Strickland  sways  slightly  where  he  stands. 
Sir  William!     You're  near  to  swooning.     Sit  you 
down,  sir. 

Strickland. 

I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  for  these  moments  do  not  dis- 
turb me, 

[Stands  upon  the  hearth,  erect,  steady,  and  very 
still. 

HoPTON. 

Truth,  the  man's  made  of  stone,     I  thought  he  had 
loved  poor  Winwood  as  his  own  son. 


30  ALLISON'S  LAD 

Goring. 

Quiet,  will  you? 

[Removes  his  hat. 

HOPTON. 

What 

Goring. 
Think  on  what's  happening  in  the  courtyard,  man! 
[A  moment's  pause,  and  then  from  below,  in  the 
rainy   courtyard,   is   heard  the  report   of  a 
muffled  volley. 

HOPTON. 

Hark! 

Strickland 
(In  an  altered,  remote  voice). 
Well  done! 

Goring. 
Grant  that  he  made  a  clean  ending! 

Strickland 
(Turns  slowly,  with  eyes  fixed  before  him,  and  the  sud- 
den smile  of  one  who  greets  a  friend). 

Tom !     Well  done,  Allison's  lad ! 

[Pitches  forward. 

Goring 
(Catching  Strickland  in   his  arms). 
Sir  William!     Help  here,  Frank! 

[They  place  Strickland  in  his  chair.    Goring 


ALLISON'S  LAD  31 

starts  to  loosen  his  neck  gear.  Hopton 
kneels  and  lays  his  hand  on  Strickland's 
heart.  On  the  moment  Bowyer  comes 
swiftly  into  the  room. 

Bowyer. 

Will!     Willi    The  lad  died  gallantly.     He  went 
as  if  a  strong  arm  were  round  him. 

Hopton 

(Lets  fall  the  hand  that  he  has  laid  on  Strickland's 
heart.     Speaks  in  an  awe-struck  voice). 

Perhaps  there  wa>! 

Goring 

(Rises   erect   from    bending   over   Strickland^. 

Captain !     Sir  William 

[Bowyer  catches  the  note  in  Goring's  voice, 
and  removes  his  hat,  as  he  stands  looking 
upon  what  he  now  knows  to  be  the  dead  body 
of  his  friend  and  leader. 


curtain. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 


THE  PEOPLE 

CoNNACHT  O'Cahane,  known  as  Conn  of  the  Hun- 
dred Tricks 
Ar7  O'Cahane,  his  brother 

Robert,  Lord  Borlase,  English  deputy  in  Munster 
Henry  Stewkley,  his  cousin  and  captain-lieutenant 

THE  PLACE 

The  Headquarters  of  Lord  Borlase,  before  the  Rock 
of  Ballynore,  in  the  Province  of  Munster 

THE  PERIOD 
The  latter  years  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

/N  a  dim,  wainscoted  parlor,  at  the  head  of  the 
hall,  in  the  manor  house  that  has  been  converted 
to  his  military  headquarters.  Lord  Borlase^  the 
English  deputy,  sits  writing.  The  time  is  mid-evening 
of  a  chilly  night  in  autumn.  Upon  the  broad  hearth  (at 
stage  left)  a  fire  snaps,  and  on  the  chimneypiece  and 
the  heavy  writing-table  (at  stage  right)  are  lighted  can- 
dles. At  my  Lord's  elbow,  on  the  table,  stand  a  flagon 
of  wine,  with  a  goblet,  and  a  gong.  Beside  them,  in  a 
little  heap,  lie  the  contents  of  a  mans  pockets — a  small 
dagger,  a  purse,  a  rosary,  several  papers,  and  a  little 
silver  box,  of  curious  workmanship,  reversible,  which 
contains  two  sorts  of  comfits. 

My  Lord  is  in  his  late  thirties,  an  ashen  blond,  cold, 
brainy,  imperious.  He  is  dressed  after  the  fashion  of 
the  time  in  rich  fabrics,  but  with  high  boots  and  sword 
at  side,  like  a  soldier.  For  an  instant  he  writes  busily, 
and  then,  without  looking  up,  he  strikes  the  gong,  and 
writes  on. 

A  moment  later  Henry  Stewkley  enters  the  room, 
by  the  heavy  door  (at  center,  back).  He  is  a  sanguine, 
thickset  English  soldier,  of  thirty  or  less.  Obviously  he 
has  just  come  from  service.  He  wears  high  boots, 
somewhat  muddied,  cuirass,  helmet,  and  gauntlets,  with 
his  sword  at  side. 

35 


36  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE 

(Speaks  without  looking  up  or  ceasing  to  write). 
Fetch  hither  the  prisoner! 

Stewkley 
(Saluting). 
I  shall,  my  lord. 

BORLASE 
(At  the  sound  of  a  well-known  voice  starts  and  turns). 
What !     Tis  never  thou,  ray  cousin  Stewkley  ? 

Stewkley. 
The  same,  my  lord. 

BORLASE. 

I  had  thought  it  the  captain  of  the  watch,  in  answer 
to  my  summons.  So  thou  art  returned  from  thy  three 
day's  scout.    What  fortune,  Harry? 

Stewkley 

(Stands  on  the  hearth,  removing  his  gauntlets). 

Our  usual  fortune,  sir.  These  pestilent  Irish  sav- 
ages will  never  stand  to  fight  us  in  the  open.  We 
have  wearied  our  horses  and  lost  two  men,  and  for  our 
pains  we  have  fetched  in  but  a  single  prisoner. 

BORLASE. 

An  officer? 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  37 

Stewkley. 

How  else,  sir?     There  are  shorter  ways  with  the 
common  sort. 

[Nonchalantly  warms  hands  at  fire. 

BORLASE. 

And  what's  his  rank? 

Stewkley. 
Naught  but  a  beggarly  young  ensign. 

BoRLASE. 

His  name? 

Stewkley. 

Here  in  the  shadow  of  Ballynore  they  bear  but  one 
name. 

BoRLASE. 

Another  O'Cahane? 

Stewkley. 
Aye,  one  of  the  damned  sept  of  the  rebel  O'Cahanes. 
Foreign-bred,   to  judge  by  his  speech.     I'd  hang  all 
such! 

BORLASE 

(Reflectively). 
A  young  O'Cahane!     Foreign-bred 

Stewkley. 
The   devil's   own   luck   is   in    it,   my   lord.     Every 
O'Cahane  in  the  four  kingdoms  we  can  clap  hands  on, 


38  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

except   the   arch-mischiefmaker,    Connacht   O'Cahane, 
him  that  they  call  Conn  of  the  Hundred  Tricks. 

BORLASE. 

And  well  named!  But  the  time  is  at  hand,  maybe, 
when  he  will  need  them,  every  one,  even  to  his  hun- 
dredth trick. 

Stewkley. 

You    mean My    lord!     Tis    never    possible 

that 

BORLASE. 

While  thou  wert  ranging  the  hills,  Harry,  and  net- 
ting this  young  sparrow  of  an  ensign,  we  were  hawk- 
ing here  for  higher  game. 

Stewkley. 
You've  taken  Connacht  O'Cahane? 

Borlase. 
Yesterday. 

Stewkley. 

St.  George  for  England !  My  lord,  you  are  master 
of  Ballynore  this  hour. 

Borlase. 

Not  this  hour,  perchance,  but  soon  shall  be. 

[Resumes  his  writing. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  39 

Stewkley. 

'Twas  Connacht  O'Cahane  was  the  engineer  of  Bal- 
lynore  yonder — Ballynore  that  has  defied  our  arms 
these  three  months,  thanks  to  the  skill  that  he  won  in 
Spain! 

BORLASE. 

A  Spanish  mother  and  an  Irish  father!  'Tis  a  bad 
mixing  of  blood  in  Connacht  O'Cahane. 

Stewkley. 

And  you  have  him  fast — he  that  shall  teach  us  the 
hidden  way  to  the  Rock  of  Ballynore. 

[Crosses  and  halts  at  Borlase's  elbow. 
My  lord!     One  favor! 

BoRLASE. 

Well,  Harry? 

Stewkley. 

We've  served  you  well,  your  lordship's  own  troop  of 
horse.     Grant  us  to  be  first  into  Ballynore! 

BORLASE. 

To  say  your  prayers  in  Ballynore  cathedral,  Harry? 

Stewkley. 

(With  grim  significance). 

To  seek  the  cathedral,  yes!  The  women  will  have 
sheltered  there.  We  are  but  men,  my  lord !  And  for 
three  months 


40  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE. 

Three  months  of  siege!  It  shall  not  chance  a  sec- 
ond  time.     When   these   rebels  see  how   it  has  sped 

with  Ballynore Thou  shalt  have  thy  will,  Hal 

Stewkley,  thou  and  thy  troopers.     Now  bid  them  fetch 
Connacht  O'Cahane  hither! 

[Stewkley  goes  up  and  speaks  an  order  out  at 
the  door.  BoRLASE  rises  and  crosses  to  the 
hearth.     Stewkley  returns  to  the  table. 

Stewkley. 

The  Spanish  trickster!  What  folly  was  on  him  to 
lay  that  shrewd  head  of  his  in  the  lion's  mouth  at  last? 

Borlase. 

He  was  fain  to  win  in  to  Ballynore,  now  in  its  time 
of  need.  Tis  dear  to  him  as  a  son,  that  castle  that  his 
own  skill  fortified. 

Stewkley. 

Dear  as  a  son,  you  say?  Faith,  'tis  all  the  son  he's 
like  to  have  now! 

Borlase. 
Aye,  if  he  keep  his  vows. 

Stewkley. 

It  seems  beyond  belief  that  he,  the  soldier,  should 
turn  priest  and  Jesuit. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK      ,      41 

BORLASE. 

Not  a  far  turning,  Harry!     They  be  of  the  church 
militant,  those  Jesuit  fathers. 

Stewkley. 
Aye,  and  of  the  church  continent,  by  times.     Tis 
young  Art   O'Cahane  must   be   heir   unto   the  chief- 
ship  now. 

BoRLASE. 

So!     The  younger  brother  of  Conn  O'Cahane? 

Stewkley. 
Aye,  the  one  brother  that  we  left  him  when  Lord 
Dudley  sacked  Dunbaily  Castle. 

[^Takes  up  rosary  from  table. 
What's  here?     Your  lordship  has  followed  O'Ca- 
hane's  practice  and  turned  bedesman? 

Borlase. 
'Tis  the  strippings  of  Conn  O'Cahane's  pockets. 

Stewkley 
(Taking  up  the  silver  box). 
What's  here?     A  comfit  box!     Pshaw! 

[Throws  it  contemptuously  aside. 
He  has  learned  the  womanish  tricks  of  Italy.     And 

papers 

Borlase. 
Of  little  moment.     'Tis  not  for  nothing  he  is  called 
Conn  of  the  Hundred  Tricks. 

[Sits  by  fire. 


42       .     THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

Stewkley 
(Scanning  papers). 
A  tavern  score — a  list  of  linen — a  letter 

BORLASE. 

Stay,  Harry!     Read  me  that  letter  once  again. 

Stewkley. 
It  seems  naught.    A  schoolboy  scrawl,  no  more! 


BORLASE. 


Read! 


Stewkley 

(Reading). 

"  Good  my  Brother : — Beseech  you  of  your  con- 
stant kindness  send  me  twenty  pistoles.  To  what  pur- 
pose I  may  not  say,  save  that  I  go  upon  a  journey  shall 
be  to  the  credit  of  us  both  and  the  honor  of  our  house, 
and  henceforth  I  am  done  with  all  childish  folly,  and 
will  endeavor  to  make  you  proud  to  name  me, 
"  Your  brother  to  serve  you, 

"  Art  O'Cahane." 
Dated  at  Salamanca,  six  months  ago,  my  lord. 

BoRLASE. 

That's  the  young  brother,  eh?  Sole  kinsman  and 
heir  to  Conn  of  the  Hundred  Tricks.  What  knowest 
thou  of  him,  Harry? 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  43 

Stewkley. 

A  young  lad,  little  more  than  child.  Bred  up  in 
Spain,  by  Conn  O'Cahane's  subtlety,  to  keep  him  from 
our  hands. 

BORLASE. 

So  much  I  know.    A  familiar  letter!    Perchance 


Dost  think  that  O'Cahane  bears  affection  to  this  lad? 

Stewkley. 
Affection?     He — that  flint! 

BORLASE. 

Still,  his  only  heir — his  brother.     And  the  lad  spoke 
of  kindness.     Foreign-bred,  and  young! 

Stewkley 

(Examining  the  dagger  which  he  has  taken  from  table). 

My  lord ! 

Borlase. 

Well,  Hal? 

Stewkley. 

This  is  a  pretty  toy!     If  you  have  no  need  there- 
of  

[Starts  to  pocket  dagger. 

Borlase. 

Ha'  done,  Hal,  thou  ingrained  ravager!     'Tis  Conn 
O'Cahane's  gear  thou  dost  make  free  with. 


44  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

Stewkley. 

His  gear — and  he  our  prisoner?     You  are  merry, 
sir. 

BORLASE. 

Nay,  in  grim  earnest  I  speak.     He  shall  have  back 
those  trifles,  and  more. 

Stewkley. 
You  say? 

Borlase. 

If  he  is  wise,  as  his  name  augurs  him  to  be,  he 
will Hush! 

Stewkley. 
You  mean 

Borlase. 

Away  with  that  dagger!     O'Cahane  is  here! 

[Stewkley  puts  dagger  aside  as  Connacht 
O'Cahane  enters  the  room.  He  is  a  tall, 
clean-run,  soldierly  man  of  Borlase's  own 
years,  with  a  strong,  somber  face,  that  plainly 
shows  his  Spanish  blood.  He  is  untonsured, 
and  wears  the  dress  of  a  layman — hose  and 
doublet  of  black,  with  high  black  boots,  all 
somewhat  shabbed.  Very  much  master  of 
himself  and  of  the  situation,  he  stands  on  the 
threshold,  with  eyelids  half  lozvered,  and 
passing  over  Stewkley,  as  a  thing  of 
naught,  fronts  BoRLASE. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  45 

BORLASE. 

You  have  had  four  and  twenty  hours  in  which  to  be- 
think you,  Colonel  O'Cahane. 

Stewkley 
(With  a  sneer). 
Father  O'Cahane,  perhaps,  we  should  be  saying  now. 

O'Cahane. 
You  need  not  say  it. 

Borlase. 
Hold  your  peace,  Stewkley!     You  are  a  wise  man, 
Colonel  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 
I  have  need  to  be  now,  my  lord  Borlase. 

Borlase. 

Well  said !     Sit  you  down.  Colonel. 

[O'Cahane  sits  by  the  table. 

And  it  may  be,  now,  that  the  night  that  is  passed  has 
brought  you  counsel. 

O'Cahane. 

I  have  slept  well,  my  lord,  I  thank  you.     Seldom 
better.     Under  youi  favor! 

\^Takes  up  the  comfit  box  and  turns  it,  with 

seeming  idleness,  in  his  hand. 
[Stewkley    7nakes    a    movement    to    prevent 
O'Cahane^    but    pauses    at    a    sign    from 
Borlase. 


46  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE. 

So  you  slept  well,  even  in  our  straitest  dungeon? 

O'Cahane 
(Handling  the  comfit  box). 
At  most  times,  my  lord,  I  have  at  hand  the  means  to 
sleep  sound  and  long,  when  I  may  choose. 

Stewkley. 
Your  hundredth  trick? 

O'Cahane. 
My  nine  and  ninetieth. 

[Opens  and  proffers  the  box. 
A  comfit.  Captain  Stewkley? 

Stewkley 
(Contemptuously). 
No! 

O'Cahane 
(Imperturhably  reverses  the  box,  and  proffers  the  other 
side). 
This  other  flavor,  perhaps? 

Stewkley. 
Not  for  me ! 

[O'Cahane   reverses  the  box  and  eats  from 
the  side  which  he  first  has  proffered. 
You  are  fastidious  in  your  choice  of  flavors. 

O'Cahane. 
To  every  flavor,  its  hour ! 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  47 

Stewkley. 

For  those  that  follow  Italian  practices.     I  am  not 
of  that  breed. 

O'Cahane. 

Yet  they  might  teach  much,  those  Italians,  even  unto 
you. 

Stewkley 
(Angrily). 
You  mean  that 

O'Cahane. 

Was   it   for   these   idle  compliments  you   bade  me 
hither,  Lord  Borlase? 

BORLASE. 

You  know  well  why  you  are  come  here. 

O'Cahane. 
Mere  curiosity,  my  lord. 

Borlase. 

For  the  last  time,  let  me  set  forth  the  matter  clearly. 
Mark  me  well — 'tis  for  the  last  time ! 

O'Cahane. 
With  all  my  heart  I  hope  so,  my  lord  Borlase. 

Borlase. 

Yonder   stands    Ballynore — the    fortress   which    we 
have  besieged  these  three  months. 


48  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

O'Cahane. 

A  siege  from  which  some  few  of  you  will  not  go 
home,  my  lord! 

Stewkley. 

A  curce  upon  him! 

[For  a  breath  of  a  second  Borlase's  eyes  are  on 
StewkleYj  compelling  him  to  silence.  In 
that  second  O'Cahane  slips  the  comfit  box 
inside  his  doublet,  unnoted  of  his  captors. 

BORLASE. 

The  season  waxes  cold.     We  may  not  sit  here  longer. 

O'Cahane. 
Most  wisely  resolved,  my  lord — ^and  unexpectedly. 

Borlase. 

But  we  shall  have  Ballynore.  Do  not  forget  that! 
And  there  is  now  but  one  way  by  which  we  may 
take  it. 

O'Cahane. 

Then  follow  that  way,  my  lord — aye,  to  the  utter- 
most. 

Borlase. 

There  is  a  secret  path  into  Ballynore — a  path  by 
which  the  fortress  may  be  surprised. 

O'Cahane. 
If  you  did  but  know  that  path,  my  lord! 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  49 

Stewkley. 

We  have  him  by  the  heels  that  shall  teach  us  that 
path. 

BORLASE. 

You  were  the  engineer  that  built  that  fortress,  Colo- 
nel O'Cahane.     You  know  the  hidden  path. 

O'Cahane. 
What  then,  my  lord? 

BORLASE. 

You  will  show  us  that  path. 

O'Cahane. 
My  lord  is  very  merry. 

Stewkley. 
'Tis  a  jesting  that  you 

BoRLASE. 

Be  silent!     You  will  remember  what  we  spoke  on 
last    night,    Colonel.     The    Queen    will    give    you    a 

baronage  for  this  service,  and 

[O'Cahane  rises. 

Where  are  you  going? 

O'Cahane. 

To  breathe  fresher  air. 


50  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE 

(Rising). 
You  leave  this  chamber  for  last  night's  dungeon. 

O'Cahane. 
Still,  fresher  air! 

BORLASE. 

You  do  not  know  me,  Conn  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 

I  know  you  well.     At  Dunbaily  we  met  aforetime, 
and  at  Kilgowen — aye,  and  at  other  places. 

BoRLASE. 

I  will  learn  of  you  the  way  into  Ballynore.     If  you 
will  not  sell  it  unto  me 

Stewkley. 
There  are  ways  to  force ' 

BORLASE. 

He  has  said  it.  Conn  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 

Then  it's  you  that  are  not  knowing  me,  Robert  Bor- 
lase.     Do  you  see  this,  and  this? 

[Turns  bafk  the  sleeves  from  his  wrists. 

Those  are  the  scars  I  brought  from  the  rack  and  the 
cord  at  Kilgowen,  when  you  would  be  making  me  talk, 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  51 

you  Englishmen,  and  I  was  fain  to  be  silent.  I  am  no 
child  that  your  talk  of  torture — no,  nor  your  torture 
itself — ^will  be  frightening  me. 

l^Turns  away  to  the  table. 

Stewkley 

(Crossing  to  BoRLASEJ. 

God's  life!     I'd  be  blithe  to  have  the  handling  of 
him.     I'd  make  him 


BORLASE. 

You  fool!  He  speaks  the  truth.  He  learned  his 
strength  there  at  Kilgowen — damn  him! 

O'Cahane. 

Well,  my  lord  ?  'Tis  pity  for  your  schemes,  is  it  not 
so,  that  I  am  not  a  young  lad  and  easy  hurt? 

BoRLASE. 

Young  lad  1 

O'Cahane. 

In  that  case  you  might  find  it  simpler  to  learn  the 
way  into  Ballynore  than  you  are  like  to  find  it  now. 
I'll  be  drinking  success  to  your  siege,  my  lord  Borlase! 

[Fills  a  gobletj  at  table. 

Borlase. 

Harry!  Your  young  ensign — O'Cahane — foreign- 
bred  !     Fetch  him  into  the  guard-room,  just  without. 


52  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

Stewkley. 
Why,  sir,  it  is  but  a  paltry 


BORLASE. 

Go!    And  at  my  signal,  lead  him  hither.     Go! 

[Stewkley  goes  out. 

O'Cahane. 
My  lord  Borlase! 

[fVith  grave  mockery  drinks  to  him. 

Borlase. 
So  you  have  the  laugh  of  me,  Conn  of  the  Hundred 
Tricks.     Well    they've    named    you!     Without    your 
help  we  are  not  like  to  win  Ballynore.     I  wonder 

O'Cahane. 
Well,  my  lord? 

Borlase. 
I  wonder  is  there  a  way  left  untried  by  which  we 
might  persuade  you.     Tut,  tut!     I  was  but  fancying. 
Well,  get  you  forth  unto  your  guards,  O'Cahane! 

O'Cahane. 
Your  lordship's  servant! 

[Bows  low,  and  goes  to  door. 

Borlase 
(Watching  O'Cahane's  every  movement  sharply). 
You  have  the  laugh  of  us,  Conn  of  the  Hundred 
Tricks. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  53 

O'Cahane 

(Opens  the  door,  starts  to  cross  the  threshold,  and 
then,  in  the  very  act  of  passing  forth  into  the  guard- 
room, starts  back,  with  a  smothered  cry). 

God! 

BORLASE. 

What  see  you,  Colonel? 

O'Cahane 

(Turns  on  Borlase  a  drawn  and  whitened  face,  but 
speaks  steadily). 
Naught. 

Borlase. 
You  cried  aloud. 

O'Cahane. 

The  twinge  of  an  old  wound.     It  wrings  me  by 

times.     Under  your  favor,  let  me  rest  here  a  moment. 

[Leans  against  the  chair  by  the  hearth. 

Borlase. 

Even  as  you  will. 

\^Goes  to  table,  takes  papers  and  gives  them  to 
O'Cahane. 
Here,  have  back  your  papers.  Colonel.     This  letter 
— I  judge  this  letter  from  a  kinsman. 

O'Cahane. 
Yes. 


54  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE. 

Your  brother,  I  take  it? 

O'Cahane. 
Yes. 

BoRLASE. 

Where  is  this  brother,  by  chance? 

O'Cahane. 
In — Salamanca. 

BORLASE. 

A  young  lad,  and  easily  hurt !  'Tis  happy  he  is  not 
in  our  hands  this  day,  eh,  Conn  of  the  Hundred 
Tricks  ? 

IfVith  visible  effort  O'Cahane  pulls  himself 
together  and  turns  toward  the  door. 
Nay,  go  not.  Colonel ! 

^Strikes  gong  on  the  table. 
A  small  matter,  merely  a  stripling  ensign  of  your 
Irishry,  with  whom  I  shall  take  order. 

[Stewkley  appears  in  the  doorway. 
Bring  him  hither.  Captain ! 

[Stewkley  comes  in,  thrusting  before  him  by 
one  shoulder  Art  O'Cahane.  Art  is 
piteously  young — a  slender,  red-haired, 
brown-eyed  boy  of  sixteen  or  less.  He  wears 
a  shabbed  and  muddied  military  dress  of 
brown   leather  and  faded,   dull  red   cloth. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  55 

His  right  shirt  sleeve  is  slit  to  the  shoulder, 
and  his  right  arm  hangs  limp  and  bandaged. 
His  face  is  white,  and  his  eyes  have  the  dazed 
look  of  a  man  led  from  darkness  into  sudden 
light.  For  an  instant  no  one  speaks.  Then 
Art's  dazed  eyes,  traversing  the  room,  rest 
upon  O'Cahane.  He  springs  toward  him 
with  a  cry  of  relief  wrung  from  his  very 
heart. 

Art. 


Conn! 


O'Cahane 

(Instantly). 

And  is  that  the  way  they  school  you  young  riders 
these  days  to  be  talking  to  your  chief?  Which  one  of 
them  are  you  at  all? 

Art. 

You — you 

O'Cahane. 

An  O'Cahane  ye  are,  by  the  look  of  you,  but  which 
one?  Is  it  Rory  Oge's  boy  you  are,  or  Owen  Ban's 
third  son?  Truth,  I've  never  seen  your  face  ere  thi? 
day.     I'm  not  remembering  you. 

Borlase. 

You've  an  ill  memory,  Colonel,  for  your  own 
brother. 


56  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

O'Cahane. 

My  brother?  Heaven  save  the  man's  wits!  My 
brother,  sir,  is  minding  his  book  in  Salamanca,  where 
I  placed  him.     He's  not  like  to  this  young  fool. 

[Under  what  he  interprets  as  disownment  Art 
staggers. 

Stewkley. 
Keep  your  feet,  you  whelp ! 

BORLASE. 

So !     What  might  they  call  you.  Ensign  ? 

Art. 
Art  O'Cahane. 

BORLASE. 

Art!  An  odd  chance,  is  it  not?  Your  brother's 
very  name,  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 
'Tis  a  common  name  amongst  us,  my  lord  Borlase. 

Borlase. 

What  say  you,  Ensign  O'Cahane?  Of  what  kindred 
of  the  O'Cahanes  are  you  sprung? 

Stewkley 
(After  a  moment's  pause,  striking  Art^. 
Speak  up! 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  57 

Art. 
1 — I You  heard  him!     I'm  no  kin — to  him. 

BORLASE. 

You  do  not  speak  in  the  country  fashion.     You  were 
bred  beyond  seas. 

Art. 
Aye,  ray  lord. 

BoRLASE. 

You  know  the  shrift  we  give  to  Spanish  officers  that 
serve  amongst  the  Irishry? 

Art. 
No  shrift  at  all,  my  lord. 

BORLASE. 

Well  shot,  for  a  young  one !     Take  him.  Captain. 

Stewkley. 
A  file  of  muskets  ? 

BORLASE. 

For  foreign  officers?     No!     The  Provost-marshal's 
gallows. 

Art. 
Gallows ! 

[At  the  boy's  half-smothered  exclamation 
O'Cahane  turns  from  the  hearth,  where  he 
has  been  standing. 


58  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE. 

iJnless  Colonel  O'Cahane  will  intercede  for  his — 
clansman  ? 

O'Cahane. 

I  have  naught  to  say — here. 

BoRLASE. 

Then,  Captain! 

Stewkley 
(Laying  his  hand  on  Art's  shoulder). 
At  daybreak? 

BORLASE. 

No.     This  same  hour. 

Art. 
This  hour! 

Stewkley. 

Come! 

[Unresisting,  Art  goes  as  Stewkley  leads  him 
toward  the  door,  but  all  the  while  he  keeps 
his  eyes  on  O'Cahane,  and  on  the  threshold, 
as  if  unable  to  bear  more,  he  breaks  from 
Stewkley  and  runs  to  O'Cahane. 

Art. 

But  haven't  ye  one  word  now — now  that  it's  to  my 
death  I'm  going?  Twas  in  the  wrong  I  was  to  break 
your  rules,  but  there  came  a  wet  wind  with  the  spring 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  59 

out  of  Ireland,  and  I  must  be  where  the  swords  were 
out.  You're  right  not  to  be  owning  me,  and  me  dis- 
obeying you,  but  now — now — ^won't  you  be  giving  me 
one  kind  word  ere  I  take  the  long  road?  Only  one 
word,  Conn,  my  brother!     My  brother! 

[Clings  to  O'Cahane. 

BORLASE. 

'Tis  you  of  your  family  that  have  all  the  tricks,  it 
seems,  Conn  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 

Forgive  the  lad  for  a  fool !     His  mother  was  an  Eng- 
lishwoman. 

Art. 
Conn!     Since  'tis  to  my  death 

Borlase. 
I  doubt  if  it  be  to  your  death  now.  Ensign  O'Cahane. 

Art. 
Not — not  to  my  death  ?     My  lord !     You  see,  Conn  I 

Borlase. 
Take  him,  Captain! 

O'Cahane 
(Thrusting  Art  behind  him). 
God's  mercy,  no! 


6o  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

BORLASE. 

You  are  remembering  Kilgowen  and  what  happened 
there  ? 

Art. 

Kilgowen !    They're  meaning  to Conn !    Conn ! 

[Collapses,    a    limp    heap,    on    his    knees,    at 
O'Cahane's  feet. 

BoRLASE. 

He  doesn't  laugh  at  Kilgowen,  you  mark !  A  young 
lad,  and  already  spent  and  wounded. 

O'Cahane. 

It  will  do  you  no  good — it  will  do  you  no  good  to 
be  torturing  him.  He  could  not  tell  you  the  way  to 
Ballynore, 

BoRLASE. 

But  you  could! 

O'Cahane 

(/4s  he  comprehends,  at  last). 
Almighty  God  whom  I  serve — serve  me ! 

BoRLASE. 

Be  making  your  decision  quickly.  Conn  of  the  Hun- 
dred Tricks.     Captain! 

Stewkley, 
My  lord ! 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  6i 

BORLASE. 

See  that  all 

[Stewkley  goes  out. 

Art. 

As  they  used  you  at  Kilgowen!     Conn!     Conn! 

\_Rises. 
You'll  never  be  letting  them! 

O'Cahane. 
I  will  not  give  up  Ballynore. 

BORLASE. 

We  are  clumsy,  we  English,  beside  you  Spanish 
men,  yet  with  care  we  can  keep  a  man  full  seven  days 
alive ! 

[Art  cowers  against  the  wall,  with  a  stifled  cry. 

O'Cahane. 
Ballynore !     Ballynore ! 

Borlase. 

O'Cahane!  'Tis  but  a  young  lad — and  weak — and 
he  is  dear  to  you. 

O'Cahane. 

There  are  younger  than  he,  and  weaker,  there  in 
Ballynore. 

Art. 

Conn!     You'll  let  them 


62  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

O'Cahane. 
I  cannot  give  up  Ballynore. 

BORLASE. 

On  your  brother's  body  be  it ! 

[Striking  gong. 
They  await  you  yonder,  Ensign  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane. 
You  must  go ! 

[Art  drags  himself  unsteadily  toward  door. 
Ballynore !     Ballynore ! 

[Stewkley  comes  again  into  the  room,  and 
grips  Art  roughly  by  the  arm  that  is 
wounded. 

Art 

(With  a  cry  of  agony). 
No!     I    can't!     I    can't!     I    can't!     Conn!     Not 
seven  days — seven  days  in  torment ! 

[Stewkley  suffers  Art  to  br  ^k  free.     Art 
staggers  to  the  hearth  and  falls  across  the 
chair,  clinging  to  O'Cahane's  hand. 
Conn!     Conn!     Help  me!     Help  me!     Help  me! 

Borlase. 
You'll  need  your  hundredth  trick  to  do  that,  Colonel. 

O'Cahane 

(With  terrible  effort). 

It's  truth  he  says — ^you  fool!     Let  go  my  hand! 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  63 

Art 

(Sinks  back,  fainting). 
I — I Give  me — to  drink! 

O'Cahane. 

I  have  your  permission   to   give  the  lad  a  cup  of 
wine? 

BORLASE. 

Hardly. 

Stewkley. 
The  boy  must  be  revived,  my  lord,  before  we  can 


O'Cahane. 

May  you  win  that  mercy  in  hell — and  may  I  win 

the  grace  to  shrive  you  there! 

Borlase 

(Filling  goblet  J. 

Here,     then!    And    be    swift.     They    await    him 
yonder. 

O'Cahane. 

I  shall  be  swift,  my  lord. 

[Borlase  and  Stewkley,  standing  by  the  table, 
confer  together.  O'Cahane,  crossing  to 
the  hearth,  draws  the  comfit  box  from  with- 
in his  doublet. 


64  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

Art. 

It's  shamed  I  am — to  be  disgracing  you — but  my 
arm — the  wound  is  new,  and  he They'll  be  hurt- 
ing it  again ! 

O'Cahane 

(Drops  a  comfit  into  the  goblet  and  waits  for  it  to 
dissolve). 

They'll  not  be  hurting  you,  when  once  you've  drunk 
this  that  I  give  you.  You've  no  need  to  be  fearing, 
Art,  my  brother! 

Art 

(Scarcely  heeding  the  words,  hut  feeling  the  unusual 
tenderness  of  the  tone). 

You're  forgiving  me.  Conn? 

O'Cahane. 

It's  thinking  I  am  how  I  brought  you  out  from  the 
burning  of  Dunbaily,  you  the  only  brother  that  was 
left  me!     And  thinking  I  was  too  of  Ballynore. 

BORLASE. 

Come,  Colonel! 

[Stewkley,  speaking  again  to  Borlase,  detains 
him. 

O'Cahane. 

Drink  it,  Art!     Don't  be  spilling  it! 

[^Steadies  Art's  hand  upon  the  goblet. 


THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK  65 

Art 

(Drinks J  and  coughs). 

'Tis  bitter  it  is ! 

[Lets  his  head  sink  on  his  breast. 

O'Cahane. 

Aye,  it  is  bitter — the  means  of  sleep  that  I  bear  al- 
ways with  me.  'Tis  bitter — but  not  so  bitter  as  seven 
days  in  hell.     Art !     Look  up !     Quick ! 

[In  the  voice  of  a  priest. 

Have  you  aught  to  confess,  my  son? 

Art. 
Confess?     What  do  you 


[O'Cahane  signs  the  cross  over  Art. 
Oh,     I     understand     now!     A     quick     passing — 

poison 

[Kneels,  obedient  to  O'Cahane's  gesture. 
Oh,  God  bless  you.  Conn,  my  brother! 

[Starts  to  cross  himself,  but  in  the  movement 
lets  his  hand  drop  limply,  and  falls  forward 
dead  at  the  feet  of  O'Cahane. 

O'Cahane 

(Simultaneous  with  Akt's  fall;  in  the  full,  deep  voice 
of  a  priest). 

Jesu!     Maria!     Receive  his  soul ! 

[At  that  voice  Stewkley  rushes  forward, 
kneels,  and  raises  Art'^  head. 


66  THE  HUNDREDTH  TRICK 

Stewkley. 

What's  this?     You  murderer!     Your  own  brother! 
You  devil!     What  is  this? 

O'Cahane 

(Erect  and  steady,  but  with  the  heavy  voice  of  one 
mortally  outworn). 

My  hundredth  trick!     Now,  my  lord  Borlase,  learn 
your  way  into  Ballynore ! 


CURTAIN 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK 


THE  PEOPLE 

Robert  Chandos,  Earl  of  Winchelsea 

Sir  Walter  Loring 

Sir  Thomas  Waynflete 

Robin  de  Talmont 


THE  PLACE 
Beneath  the  walls  of  Pontivet,  in  Brittany 

THE  PERIOD 

The  Hundred  Years'  War 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

MT  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  of  the  day  on 
/Tf  which  the  English  forces  shall  deliver  the  as- 
■^  -^  sault  on  the  doomed  town  of  Pontivet,  Rob- 
ert Chandos,  the  English  commander,  lies  sleeping  in 
his  quarters.  The  room  is  a  cold  and  narrow  chamber 
of  stone,  lighted  with  flambeaux  set  in  iron  rings  along 
the  walls,  and  by  the  fire  upon  the  raised  hearth  of  the 
vast,  hooded  fireplace  (at  stage  left).  At  the  far  end 
of  the  room  (stage  back),  gained  by  several  steps  and 
a  narrow  platform,  is  a  three-fold  window,  through 
which  are  visible  the  night  sky,  with  a  few  stars,  and 
distant  hills,  blacker  than  the  sky,  which  lie  beneath  it. 
The  chamber  is  sparsely  furnished,  with  a  camp  bed,  a 
table,  littered  with  papers,  a  stool  or  two,  and  a  great 
chair,  with  a  furred  robe  flung  across  it.  Helmets, 
gauntlets,  and  pieces  of  armor  lie  ready  at  hand  for 
service.  A  chill  wind  comes  in  at  the  open  casement, 
and  by  times  makes  the  flames  of  the  flambeaux  to 
flicker, 

Chanuos  lies  upon  the  camp  bed  (stage  right),  half 
dressed,  with  a  coverlet  flung  across  him.  He  is  a 
man  of  forty  odd,  powerfully  built  and  full-blooded, 
with  a  strong,  clean-shaven  jaw,  and  short  dark  hair, 
just  touched  with  gray  upon  the  temples. 

Sir  Walter  Loring,  his  kinsman  and  friend,  a  tall, 
69 


70  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

spare  man  of  forty,  sits  at  the  table  by  the  hearth.  He 
wears  jerkin  and  long  hose  of  leather,  as  if  prepared  at 
any  moment  to  put  on  his  heavy  body  armor.  He  has 
papers  spread  before  him,  and  he  is  explaining  a  plan 
of  action  to  SiR  Thomas  Waynfletb.  The  latter  is 
a  thickset,  burly  gentleman,  in  full  armor,  as  typically 
Saxon  English  as  Chandos  and  Loring  are  Norman. 
The  entire  look  of  room  and  men  is  cold  and  war- 
like. The  only  note  of  color  is  in  the  dull  red  of  the 
coverlet  flung  over  Chandos — a  note  repeated  in  the 
furred  robe  that  rests  on  the  great  chair,  and  in  the 
color  of  the  jupon  that  Waynflete  wears  above  his 
armor. 

Loring. 

Lo,  here  your  post,  hard  by  the  Water  Gate. 
Westward  at  La  Valette  my  lads  lie  wakeful. 
Upon  the  east  couch  Bigod  and  De  Courcy. 

Waynflete. 
True  captains  all,  and  tried ! 

Loring. 

Here  Courtenay, 
And  here  De  Talmont  with  our  Breton  allies. 

Waynflete. 

Good  faith,  a  chain  of  iron  rings  the  city ! 

And  when  we  draw  that  chain,  to-morrow  daybreak, 

There'll  be  a  strangled  throat  for  Pontivet. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  71 

LORING. 

If  the  chain  hold,  the  town  is  ours  at  sunrise. 

Waynflete 

(Going  to  window). 

The  cursed  town  that  long  has  mocked  our  powers, 
That  shamed  our  arms,  a  score  of  years  ago ! 
Sleep  well,  ye  curs  of  France,  in  Pontivet! 
We'll  give  ye  a  shrewd  hunt's  up  with  the  dawn ! 

We'll  lesson  ye 

[ChandoS  stirs  in  his  sleep. 

LORING. 

Lower  your  voice.  Sir  Thomas! 

Waynflete. 
What  say  you? 

LORING. 

Hush! 

Chandos 

(Murmuring  in  his  sleep). 

I  shall  win  Pontivet! 


'Tis- 


Waynflete. 

LORING. 

Quiet !     Haply  he  will  sleep  again. 


72  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos. 
Idle  thy  cries!    The  town  shall  yet  be  mine. 
Come  daylight  I  shall  enter  Pontivet. 

[A  moment's  pause. 

LORING. 

So!     Once  again  he  sleeps. 

Waynflete 
(Coming  from  window). 

In  truth,  I  wist  not 
My  lord  of  Winchelsea  lay  in  this  chamber. 

LORING. 

Such  was  his  will. 

Waynflete. 
So  spent  he  is  and  wounded, 
In  this  day's  hot  assault  upon  the  city 

LORING. 

Aye,  spent  and  wounded  sore,  yet  for  no  urging 
Would  he  forsake  his  post.     This  plan  of  action, 

[Indicates  scroll. 
He  shaped  it,  point  by  point,  ere  he  would  rest  him. 
His  thought  has  cared  for  all.  And  on  the  morrow 

Waynflete. 
He  does  not  dream  to  mingle  in  the  battle  ? 

LORING. 

What  need  ?     We  are  the  limbs  his  brain  doth  order. 
We  smite  as  he  directs. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  73 

Waynflete. 

Aye,  marry,  will  we! 

LORING. 

And  with  the  dawn,  the  first  of  English  captains, 
We  bear  him  victor  into  Pontivet. 

Chandos. 
Dost  hear?     To  Pontivet!     To  Pontivet! 

Waynflete. 
Again  he  stirs! 

LORING. 

My  blame!     My  words  have  roused  him. 

Waynflete. 
It  stands  him  much  upon  to  win  this  town. 

LORING. 

Aye,  and  small  wonder! 

Waynflete. 

Men  have  said.  Sir  Walter, 
He  suffered  once  a  check  beneath  these  walls. 

LORING. 

Men  may  say  much. 

Chandos. 

Dost  hear  me,  Isabeau? 
Thy  God  is  deaf.    I  enter  Pontivet. 


74  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Waynflete. 
What  said 

LORING 

(Hastily). 

And  for  that  matter  that  men  prate  of, 
'Tis  sooth  that  near  a  score  of  years  agone 
Our   lord  of  Winchelsea,   then   plain   Rob   Chandos, 
A  simple  captain  'neath  Prince  Edward's  banner, 
Warred  at  the  former  siege  of  Pontivet. 

Waynflete. 
The  Black  Prince  failed. 

LORING. 

And  Chandos  was  made  captive. 
A  sorry  check,  and  one  he  has  remembered. 

Waynflete. 
Small  wonder,  truth,  he  longs  to  take  the  town  1 

LORING. 

God  send  him  fair  success!     For  much  I  doubt  me, 
If  he  fail  now,  his  life  were  worth  scant  purchase. 

Waynflete. 

If  he  fail  now — why,  man,  ye  prattle  moonshine! 
Our  great  Earl  Winchelsea,  our  king's  first  captain, 
Stout  Robert  Chandos,  Rob  o'  Fifty  Fights — 
When  hath  he  failed  ? 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  75 

LORING. 

He  failed  at  Pontivet. 

Waynflete. 
Drain  ye  a  cup  and  comfort  ye,  Sir  Walter! 
This  odd  and  even  hour  hath  evil  magic 
To  quench  your  courage. 

LORING. 

Grant  it  be  that  only! 

Waynflete. 
Do  but  look  hither  on  my  lord's  fair  planning. 
Mark  how  our  line  is  drawn  round  Pontivet — 
A  double  chain,  here  to  shut  out  French  succor, 
Here  to  shut  in  the  town.     A  chain  of  iron! 
A  chain  so  strong 

LORING. 

No  chain,  howe'er  ye  forge  it, 
Is  stronger  than  its  weakest  link. 

Waynflete. 

Mere  prattle! 
Where  is  your  weak  link  ?     All  our  captains  trusty — 

LORING. 

Aye,  true!     But  here  the  error  of  one  horseboy — 

Waynflete. 
Error?     Where  Robert  Chandos  is  the  captain? 
All  know  him,  swift  with  meed  and  swift  to  punish. 


76  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

LORING. 

Merciless,  too! 

Waynflete. 

Aye,  none  will  dare  to  fail  him. 
We'll  break  our  fast,  come  dawn,  in  Pontivet. 

Chandos. 

How  should  they  hear  thy  crying,  Isabeau? 
White  Hands!     White  Hands! 

LORING. 

Break  off  our  speech! 

Waynflete. 

Your  pleasure? 

LORING. 

You  have  your  orders.    'Gainst  the  morning,  rest  you. 

Waynflete. 
Do  you  the  like!     And  hark  ye,  Wat 

LORING. 

Well,  Thomas? 

Waynflete. 

No  more  crazed  whimsies  touching  weakest  links! 
So  rest  you  well ! 

[Waynflete  goes  out  by  a  narrow  door  (stage 
left  first). 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  77 

LORING. 

And  you!     Crazed  whimsies,  say  you? 

Chandos. 
White  Hands!     White  Hands! 

LORING. 

Send  it  be  sick-room  vapors, 
And  only  that! 

[Scanning  the  scroll. 
Where's  the  weak  link?     De  Courcy, 
Bigod,  Tom  Waynflete,  Courtenay,  De  Talmont — 
Tried   captains   all,   sure   men.     That   way   all's   an- 
swered ! 

[Goes  to  the  ivindow  and  looks  forth. 

And  yet — and  yet 

[A  moment's  pause. 

Chandos. 
We  enter  Pontivet! 

[IVakes,  rises  on  elbow. 
What  is  it?     Walter!     Ho,  my  cousin  Loring! 
Art  sleeping,  Wat? 

Loring. 
(Coming  to  ChandosJ. 

'Tis  you  should  sleep,  my  kinsman. 

Chandos. 

Sleep!     Sleep!     God's  light!     No  sleep  is  for  mine 

eyelids, 
Till  ye  have  borne  me  into  Pontivet. 
What  is  the  hour? 


78  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Lx)RINO. 

Two  o'clock,  my  cousin. 

Chandos. 

Two  of  the  clock?    Three  hours — ^but  three  hours, 
And  Pontivet 

LORING. 

We  shall  assault  at  dawn. 

Chandos. 
Wert  looking  forth  ? 

LORING 

Aye. 

Chandos. 

Saw  you  aught? 

LORING. 

All  quiet! 
No  spark  of  warning  beacon.     They  should  kindle, 
If  aught  should  fall  amiss,  but — let  me  raise  you! — 
Lo!     How  the  far  horizon  sleeps  in  blackness. 
No  beacon  kindles.     All  is  well. 

Chandos. 

All's  well! 
And  yet — ^and  yet  a  dreary  dream  was  on  me. 
A  word  of  evil  echoed  through  my  sleep. 
The  weakest  link — pshaw!     'Tis  a  sick-bed  fancy! 
The  chain  I've  linked  round  Pontivet  is  strong. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  79 

LX)RIXG. 

Past  breaking,  sir. 

{^Returns  to  table. 

Chandos. 

And  so,  come  dawn  to-morrow — 
'Twas  sworn  of  old  I  should  not  take  the  town. 
Let  me  look  on  that  scroll. 

LORING 

(Giving  him  the  scroll). 

You  have  it,  kinsman. 

Chandos. 

So !     So !     De  Courcy,  Courtenay,  De  Talmont 
Here  at  the  ford  upon  La  Roisselette. 

IXJRING, 

I  do  misdoubt  that  stream.  La  Roisselette. 

Chandos. 

Doubt  it? 

LORING. 

Aye.    Should  the  French  find  place  of  fording 

Chandos. 

There's  but  one  ford  upon  La  Roisselette. 
That  ford  we  hold. 

LORING. 

But  should  there  be  another 


8o  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos. 

Man,  man,  I  know  that  stream,  La  Roisselette! 
One  only  ford  there  is,  and  well  I  learned  it, 
A  score  of  years  agone. 

LORING. 

Content  ye,  cousin! 

Chandos. 

'Tis  by  that  ford  ye  cross  to  Beauseant, 

The  gray  chateau.     Aye,   from   the   ford   ye   glimpse 

them. 
The  lights  of  Beauseant — twenty  years  agone ! 

LORING. 

Let  me  lay  by  the  scroll,  and  rest  you,  cousin. 

Chandos. 

Rest!     Rest!     I'll  rest  when  I  gain  Pontivet. 
A  troublous  dream  it  was!     I  cried  out,  cousin! 

LORING. 

A  name  you  murmured. 

Chandos. 

What  name? 

Loring. 

Isabeau. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  8i 

Chandos. 
Aye,  truly!     In  my  dream  I  looked  upon  her. 
White      Hands!     White      Hands!     She      dwelt      at 

Beauseant, 
A  score  of  years  agone. 

LORING. 

At  that  time,  kinsman, 
You  were  some  three  years  wedded. 

Chandos. 

Fairly  wedded 
Unto  the  wife  that  bore  me  only  daughters. 
She  dwelt  in  England.     I  warred  here  in  France. 
And  when  the  siege  was  laid  to  Pontivet, 
I  held  the  ford  upon  La  Roisselette. 
And  from  the  ford — the  lights  of  Beauseant — 
They  beacon  through  the  night! 


LORING. 


Your  task  it  was 


To  keep  the  ford. 


Chandos. 
But  Beauseant  was  near — 
And  I  was  young!     Her  bower  light  was  my  beacon- 
Her  light  at  Beauseant !     What  harm  came  thereby  ? 
No  foeman  crossed  the  ford,  though  I  went  ranging. 
The  ford  was  kept. 

LORING. 

And  what  of  Isabeau  ? 


82  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos. 

So  many  years  agone !     And  Beauseant, 
Ti's  now  three  parts  a  ruin.     Well  I  marked  it ! 
Was  it  a  cloister,  or  some  old  man's  hearthside 
That  quenched  the  fire  in  that  heart  of  fire? 
Good  cousin,  do  you  credit  idle  dreams? 

LORING. 

Wise  men  of  old  have  done  so. 

Chandos. 

For  I  saw  her, 
This  hour,  in  my  dreaming,  Isabeau, 
Even  as  I  saw  her,  twenty  years  agone. 
Twas  the  last  time.     A  tale  had  come  from  England. 
She  knew  me  wedded  man.     Ah,  well!     She  cursed  me. 
"  Never  shall  ye  win  Pontivet !  "  her  burden. 
"  Never,  while  God  remembers!  "     On  the  morrow 
Our  arms  were  put  to  shame.     I  was  made  prisoner. 
Twas  thus  I  saw  her  in  my  dream  but  now. 
Well,  cousin? 

LORING. 

It  is  naught. 

Chandos. 

Aye,  truth!     Mere  dreaming! 
Yet  should  I  fail  to  win  me  Pontivet, 
It  might  be  I  should  sink  to  idle  brooding, 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  83 

And What  step's  that?     What  tidings,  Walter 

Loring? 

[Waynflete    comes    again    eagerly    into    the 
room. 

Waynflete. 
My  lord!      Brave  news,  my  lord!      The  stout  Earl 

Brandon 
This  hour  has  joined  our  host! 

Chandos. 

What!     Brandon,    say   you? 
He  was  a  day's  march  hence 

Waynflete. 

He'd  not  be  cheated, 
He  and  his  lads,  of  the  good  sport  that's  toward. 
They're  here  at  hand,  a  thousand  fighting  blades. 

Chandos. 
Good  news,  in  truth !     This  makes  assurance  double. 
I  shall  have  Pontivet  at  morning  light. 
Eh,  Wat  ?     God  does  remember,  it  would  seem — 
Remembers  well  to  fight  beneath  my  banner ! 

Loring. 
The  fight  is  not  yet  fought  out,  kinsman  Chandos! 

l^Goes  to  window  and  stands  looking  out. 

Chandos. 
My  greetings,  Waynflete,  bear  unto  Lord  Brandon. 
Let  his  men  march  beside  Sir  Walter's  squadron. 
Look  to  it! 


84  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Waynflete. 
Aye,  my  lord ! 

Chandos. 

And  good  speed  to  you 
Upon  the  morrow! 

Waynflete. 

God  you  save,  my  lord! 
[Waynflete  goes  hastily  from  the  room. 
Chandos. 
Rightly  you  said !     Dreams  are  mere  woman's  fancies. 
Despite  them  all  I  shall  win  Pontivet. 
Her  God  has  not  remembered.     Do  you  mark  me? 
The  chain  I've  forged  is  strong. 

[On  the  black  horizon  line,  seen  through   the 
window,  a  spark  of  light  kindles. 

LORING. 

Ah! 

Chandos. 

Walter  Loring! 
What  is  it?    Speak! 

Loring. 

Why,  naught!     Why,  naught,  it  may  be. 

Chandos. 

Answer  me,  man !     I  am  no  doddering  woman. 
Answer!     You  see 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  85 

LORING. 

A  beacon  fire,  my  lord. 

Chandos. 
A  beacon! 

LORING. 

'Twill  be  naught.     Some  fool  has  blundered. 
Splendor  of  God!     Another  light  breaks  forth! 

Chandos. 
The  danger  signals! 

LORING. 

One  upon  another 
They  kindle!     The  horizon  is  ablaze. 

Chandos. 

Pitiful  God!     And  I  must  lie  here  helpless. 

[Outside  is  heard  the  faint  noise  of  a  camp  rouS' 
ing  and  taking  arms. 

LORING. 

The  camp  is  stirring. 

Chandos 
(Struggling  to  rise). 

Send  me  help,  great  God! 

LORING. 
Eastward  there  is  the  murmur  of  the  battle. 


86  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos 

(Rising  to  his  feet). 

I  will  win  Pontivet!     Dost  hear  me,  God? 
Dost  hear  me,  Isabeau? 

LORING 

(Hastening  to  Chandos^. 

My  lord!     My  lord! 

Ckandos. 

Stand  from  my  way,  Wat  Loring! 

[Waynflete  comes  again  hurriedly  into  the 
room. 

What's  your  tidings? 
Out  with  it,  man! 

Waynflete. 

The  French — relieving  forces — 
They've  broken  through  our  lines ! 

Chandos. 

Ah! 

Waynflete. 

They  are  pouring 
Into  the  town!     They're  beating  down  our  men! 

Chandos. 
Where's  our  line  broken  ? 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  87 

Waynflete. 

At  La  Roisselette. 
Chandos. 
The  weakest  link!     I  trusted  to  De  Talmont. 

LORING. 

De  Talmont's  true!     I'll  stake  my  life  upon  him. 

Waynflete. 
It  may  be,  but  his  ensign  is  a  traitor. 

Chandos. 
What  say  you? 

Waynflete. 

'Twas  his  part  to  keep  the  ford. 
He  left  his  post,  there  at  La  Roisselette. 

Chandos. 

'Twas  not  well  done. 

Waynflete. 

And  in  that  hour  the  Frenchmen 
Crossed  o'er  the  ford,  and  beating  all  before  them 
Burst  into  Pontivet,  and  hard  upon  them 
More    foes,    and    more,    and    more,    and    more    come 
swarming. 

Chandos. 

Let  Brandon  move  upon  La  Roisselette. 
Shift  Courtenay  unto  the  Water  Gate. 


88  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Let  Bigod  smite  the  right  wing  of  the  French. 
And  swiftly!     Swiftly! 

LORING. 

'Tis  a  desperate  chance! 

Chandos. 

'Tis  our  one  chance.     The  town  is  not  yet  lost. 
About  it,  Waynflete ! 

Waynflete. 
Aye,  my  lord! 

Chandos. 

And,  Waynflete! 

Waynflete. 
My  lord! 

Chandos. 
This  treacherous  ensign  of  De  Talmont's 

Waynflete. 
He  is  without,  under  close  guard,  my  lord. 

Chandos. 


Send  him  unto  me. 


Waynflete. 

Aye! 


[Waynflete  goes  out. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  89 

LORING. 

Best  spare  your  strength. 
Much  hangs  upon  this  hour. 

Chandos 

(Pacing  up  and  down  the  chamber). 

My  hours  are  numbered. 

If  I  lose  Pontivet,  my  hours  are  numbered. 

But  to  the  last  they'll  find  that  I  remember — 

That  I  remember  those  that  do  betray  me! 

Where  is  this  treacherous  hound,  De  Talmont's  ensign  ? 
[Robin  de  Talmont  comes  into  the  room. 
He  is  a  clean-shaz'en,  dark  youth  of  nineteen, 
bareheadedj  in  military  dress,  powdered  with 
dust,  and  unarmed.  -His  face  is  bloodless 
with  fright  and  pain.  He  has  been  cut  upon 
the  head,  and  from  time  to  time,  mechan- 
ically, stanches  the  bleeding  with  his  sleeve. 

LORING. 

He's  here,  my  lord ! 

Chandos 

(In  cold  fury,  his  voice  likp  o  whip-lash,  his  eyes  fire). 

So!     You  are  he?     Come  hither! 
Hither,  I  say! 

Robin. 
My  lord! 


90  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos. 

A  light  here,  Loring! 
A  light!     Dost  mark  me?     I  would  look  upon  him — 
He  that  forsook  his  post — he  through  whose  treason 
I  have  lost  Pontivet! 

[Obediently  Loring  has  lifted  a  candle  from 
the  table,  and  holding  it  aloft,  lets  the  light 
fall  across  Robin's  white  face. 

Robin. 
My  lord ! 

Chandos. 

You  mark  him! 
The  weakest  link!     In  all  the  chain  the  weakest! 
And  you,  so  paltry,  so  contemptible, 
An  atom  my  left  hand  might  brush  aside — 
Tis  you  have  strength  to  lose  me  Pontivet. 
Answer !     You  left  your  post  ?     You  are  not  dumb ! 
You  left  your  post? 

Robin. 
My  lord! 

Chandos. 

/our  answer! 

Robin. 

Aye! 

But  hear  me,  lord! 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  91 

Chandos. 

Enough !  Write  me  his  sentence, 
Loring!     This  hour!     Write! 

[LoRiNG  sits  and  writes  at  table. 
Upon  the  morrow 
Let  this  same  ensign How  is  it  they  call  you  ? 

Loring 

(After  a  moment's  pause). 
Your  name  ? 

Robin. 
(As  if  half  dazed). 
De  Talmont,  sir Robin  de  Talmont. 

Chandos. 
De  Talmont's  blest  in  such  a  valiant  sonl 

Robin. 

I  am — no  son  of  his.     My  mother's  kinsman — 
He  let  me  bear  his  name — in  charity. 
He  must  not  come  to  shame  through  me,  my  lord! 
You  will  not  shame  De  Talmont  for  my  sake? 
You  will  not 

Chandos. 

Hold  your  peace.     Upon  the  morrow 
Lead  this  De  Talmont  forth  before  the  army, 
Aye,  in  the  face  of  all  the  ranks  assembled. 
There  let  him  be  degraded  from  his  office, 


92  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Flogged  through  the  camp — aye,  by  the  common  hang- 
man! 
Then  let  him  hang  upon  the  provost's  gallows, 
Whereon  camp-thieves  are  hanged. 

LORING 

(In  protest). 

My  lord ! 

Chandos. 

'Tis  written, 


Even  as  I  bade? 


LORING. 

'Tis  written. 
Chandos. 


1  will  sign. 
[Goes  to  table,  takes  pen. 

LORING.  ' 

Kinsman!     Tis  but  a  young  one.     Of  your  pity 
Grant  him  the  mercy  of  mere  death,  my  lord. 

Chandos. 
He  has  betrayed  me. 

[Signs  the  warrant. 

LORING. 

And  is  he  the  first 
That  left  La  Roisselette  to  work  betrayal? 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  93 

Chandos. 
You  waste  your  words.     He  lost  me  Pontivet. 

[To  Robin. 
Get  you  unto  your  guards!     Dost  hear  me,  sirrah? 

Robin. 
I  am — to  be — degraded? 

Chandos. 

You  have  heard 
Your  sentence  given. 

Robin. 

I  am — to  be — flogged  ? 


Get  you  away! 


Chandos. 

[Paces  up  to  window. 


LORING 

You  were  best  go,  De  Talmont! 
[As  if  in  a  daze,  Robin  goes  to  the  door,  tnen 
turns,  and  swiftly  crosses  to  Chandos. 

Robin. 
My  lord!     My  lord!     If  you  will  only  slay  me! 
Spare  me  the  shaming — and  the  whip!     My  lord! 
As  you  may  hope  for  mercy — at  your  need ! 

LORING 

(Rising). 
Will  you  not  hear  him,  my  lord  Winchelsea? 


94  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Robin. 

I  did  my  best — when  that  our  line  was  broken — 
When  I  came  back — and  found  our  line  was  broken- 
All  that  I  could,  I  did!     I  sought  to  perish — 
There,  in  the  fight!     If  you  will  only  spare  me 
The  open  shame!     It  is  not  life  I'm  asking — 
Only  the  shame !     My  lord !     If  you  will  spare  me — 


Chandos. 
You  left  the  ford. 

Robin 

For  her  sake  'twas  I  left  it — 
Only  for  her.     Her  message  came  this  hour. 
All  the  long  day  they'd  sought  me  through  the  army. 
All  the  long  day  she  called — and  I  must  seek  her! 

Chandos. 
You  left  the  ford  and  went  unto  your  leman? 

Robin. 
My  mother,  dying — and  she  died  this  hour! 

LORING. 

Can  you  not  grant  the  mercy  that  he  seeks? 

Chandos. 

He  lost  me  Pontivet. 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  95 

Robin 
(Falls  on  his  knees  beside  LORING^. 

But  you — you'll  listen — 
You'll  make  him  listen!     'Twas  so  near — ^so  near! 
If  my  lord  only  knew  how  near  the  way! 
Just  from  the  ford  upon  La  Roisselette 
Unto  the  chateau  yonder — Beauseant! 

Chandos. 
Beauseant  1 

Robin. 

And  her  light — it  was  my  beacon — 
Her  bower  light — through  the  dark 

LORING. 

Dost  mark  him  well? 
Robin, 

My  mother,  dying  there  at  Beauseant — 
So  near!     So  near! 

LORING 

(Watching  ChandosJ. 

His  mother — Beauseant 


Robin. 
If  you  will  tell  him  'twas  for  her  I  went — 
Only  for  her ! 

Chandos 
(Speaking  with  difficulty). 
His  mother Speak!     Who  was  she? 


96  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

LORING. 

Your  mother's  name,  lad  ? 

Robin. 

Isabeau  d'Avranche — 
Daughter  of  Messire  d'Avranche. 

Chandos. 

Isabeau ! 

LORING. 

You  hear  him,  Chandos  ?    And  your  father,  lad  ? 

Robin. 
I — I Good  faith,  sir,  he 

Chandos 

(Like  a  man  beside  himself,  he  comes  to  the  kneeling 
boy  and  catches  him  by  the  throat,  turning  him  so 
that  he  may  scan  his  face). 

The  truth!     The  truth! 

Speak,  ere  I  tear  it  from  thee!     Speak!     Thy  father! 

Robin. 

An  English  captain,  sir.     No  name  he  left  her 
To  give  to  me! 

{Choking  under  Chandos's  hold. 
My  lord! 

LORING. 

Have  done,  Rob  Chandos! 
Hast  heard  enough? 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  97 

Chandos. 

Now  as  God  looks  upon  us, 
I  did  not  know  this!     This  I  did  not  know. 
For  this  she  cursed  me,  twenty  years  agone. 

Robin. 

Will  my  lord  grant  me  mercy  of  quick  death  ? 
I  had  not  wrought  to  lose  him  Pontivet, 
But  when  she  called  me 

Chandos. 

So!  It  was  her  hands 
That  drew  him  from  the  ford.  Her  dead,  white  hands 
That  thrust  me  from  the  walls  of  Pontivet. 

[Waynflete  comes  again  into  the  room. 
Well,  Thomas  Waynflete!     So!     The  town  is  lost? 

Waynflete. 

Aye,  Pontivet  is  lost  to  us,  my  lord! 

They  found  the  weakest  link  within  our  chain. 

Chandos. 

The  weakest  link — the  link  of  mine  own  forging! 
God  does  remember  well. 

\_Sinks  heavily  into  the  great  chair. 
That  sentence,  Walter, 
Burn  it!     I  may  not  judge 

LORING. 

You're  pardoned,  Robin! 
[Thrusts  the  paper  into  the  fire. 


98  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

Chandos. 
Come  hither,  you — you  lad! 

Robin 
(Going  to  Chandos^. 
My  lord! 

Chandos. 

Your  mother, 
This  night  at  Beauseant — ^what  said  she,  dying? 

Robin. 

My  lord !     My  lord !     In  truth  she  was  distraught. 
She  knew  not 

Chandos. 
Answer  truly! 

Robin. 

She  was  praying — 
Madness  it  was! — she  prayed  the  God  of  Justice 
To  hold  you  from  the  walls  or  Pontivet. 

Chandos. 

And  God  has  heard! 

\_His  eyes  close. 

LORING. 

My  lord  I 


THE  WEAKEST  LINK  99 

Chandos. 

Peace!     Peace!     'Tis  answered. 
Her  prayer!     I  wonder  will  He  hear  thee  praying, 
Isabeau's  son?     Wilt  kneel  and  pray  for  me? 

Robin 

(Kneeling  beside  Chandos^, 

I  had  not  wrought  to  lose  ye  Pontivet, 
Believe  me,  lord ! 

Chandos 
(His  hand  on  Robin's  bent  head). 

The  link  of  mine  own  forging — 
The  weakest  link! 

LORING. 

Pray,  Robin! 

Robin. 

Dominus, 
Ad  Te  clamamus 


Chandos. 

Ah! 
\_With  a  rattling  gasp  he  lets  fall  his  head  upon 
his  breast. 

Robin 

(Crying  out  sharply). 

My  lord  1    My  lord  1 


loo  THE  WEAKEST  LINK 

LORING 

(Bends  over  Chandos^  touches  his  hand,  and  turns 
solemnly  to  Waynfletk^. 

Pray  for  his  soul — ^who  lost  us  Pontivet  I 

CURTAIN 


THE   SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 


THE  PEOPLE 

Sir  Henry  Champernoune 
YwAiN  Chauvigny 
Michael  Tavernier 

THE  PLACE 
A  chateau  not  far  from  the  coast,  in  Normandy. 

THE  PERIOD 
The  early  days  of  the  French  Republic 


THE   SNARE  AND  THE   FOWLER 

yt  NARROW  chamber  in  an  old  Norman 
y  £  chateau  has  been  converted,  in  the  wild  days 
of  the  Nineties,  into  a  prison  cell.  Bars  are 
across  the  slits  of  windows  (at  stage  right).  The 
single  door  (at  center,  back)  is  fitted  with  a  heavy  lock. 
The  furnishings — a  cot  (right),  a  table  and  a  chair  (at 
left) — are  rude  and  battered.  Yet  on  this  evening  some 
preparations  of  comfort  have  been  made.  In  the  nar- 
row fireplace  (at  left)  a  low  fire  has  been  kindled.  A 
loaf,  a  flask  of  wine,  and  some  cheese  have  been  set 
upon  the  table.  On  the  chimneypiece  a  single,  half- 
burned  candle  flickers. 

The  one  occupant  of  the  chamber,  YwAiN  Chau- 
VIGNY^  is  indifferent  to  these  comforts.  A  slender, 
boyish  figure,  he  lies  wrapped  in  a  tattered  blanket  upon 
the  cot,  well  in  shadow,  and  sleeps. 

A  moment,  and  the  sound  is  heard  of  a  key  grating 
in  the  lock.  MiCHAEL  Tavernier  opens  the  door 
and  comes  into  the  room,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand. 
He  is  a  scarred,  brown  man  in  his  late  twenties,  in  the 
worn  uniform  of  a  captain  of  the  French  Republic. 
He  speaks  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  comes. 

Tavernier. 
This  way,  Sir  Henry! 

[Sir  Henry  Champernoune  follows  Taver- 
nier into  the  chamber.     He  is  a  dark  man 
103 


I04     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

of  thirty,  in  whom  the  outer  semblance  of  a 
blase,  semi-eccentric  man  of  the  world 
scarcely  serves  to  mask  the  almost  fanatic 
nature  beneath.  He  wears  riding  dress, 
slightly  crumpled  and  disarranged,  and  his 
own  hair,  unpowdered. 

Champernoune. 

At  your  service,  Captain! 

Tavernier. 
Rough  lodgings,  but  the  best  that  I  could  win  you. 

Champernoune. 
It  matters  little.     Not  for  long  I  rest  here. 
To-morrow  morn  at  six — such  was  the  sentence! 
Egad !     She  makes  short  work,  your  red  republic — 

l^Takes  snuff. 
Short  work,  that  leaves  me  by  a  head  the  shorter ! 

Tavernier 
(Placing  the  candle  on  the  table). 
There's  bread  and  wine  I  bade  them  set  before  you. 

Champernoune. 
Good  husbandry  to  fatten  what  you  slaughter! 

Tavernier. 
'Tis  my  regret  that  you  must  share  this  chamber. 

Champernoune. 
Ah,  well!     To  other  matters  that's  a  trifle. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     105 

Tavernier. 
But  this  young  fellow  here 

Champernoune. 

A  doomed  man  also? 

Tavernier. 

Yes.     'Tis  a  Breton  lad,  Ywain  Chauvigny, 
A  young  spy,  captured  in  the  Vaupre  region. 

Champernoune. 

As  much  a  spy  as,  say,  your  humble  servant? 
Poor  devil! 

Tavernier. 

A  young  fool!     You  scarce  would  believe  it, 
But  yestermorn  he  tried  to  make  evasion. 

Champernoune. 
Give  you  the  slip,  eh?     Tut,  tut,  tut!'    How  foolish! 

Tavernier. 

Aye,  so  he  found  it,  with  a  shattered  kneepan. 
And  for  that  wound  I  was  half  loath  to  move  him. 
But  if  you  grudge  that  he  should  rest  here,  Harry 


Champernoune. 

Nay,  let  him  bide!     We  shall  not  vex  each  other. 

[Goes  to  the  cot  and  stands  looking  down  at 
Ywain. 
He  sleeps,  eh  ?     On  my  conscience,  'tis  a  young  one ! 


io6     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

She  has  few  qualms  of  pity,  your  republic. 
This  is  a  lad  should  win  no  worse  than  beating. 
Cuff  him  and  send  him  home  unto  his  mother! 

Tavernier. 
And  is  it  so  in  your  just  England,  Harry, 
Your  wise  and  gentle  law  deals  with  young  poachers 
That  trap  a  hare,  say,  in  his  lordship's  manors? 
Here  in  our  France 

Champernoune. 

I'm  desolate,  dear  Michael, 
But  since  I  die  at  six  o'clock  to-morrow, 
We  scarce  can  end  this  ancient  argument. 
Then  why  embark? 

Tavernier. 
But  yet  of  France  and  England 

Champernoune. 
Enough  for  me  that  France,  the  red,  victorious, 
Takes  off  my  head.     And  slow  and  sober  England 
In  her  good  time  will  have  a  reckoning  for  it. 
I  am  no  spy.     I  came  on  mine  own  errand. 
Your  pardon,  Michael.     I  speak  over  warmlj'. 
But  to  be  frank,  I  am  annoyed,  good  Michael, 
Wondrous  annoyed  at  parting  with  this  headpiece, 
That  for  nigh  thirty  years  has  served  me  well. 

Tavernier. 
You're  the  same  Harry  of  our  wretched  schooldays. 
You  would  be  jesting,  even  there  at  Bromwich. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     107 

Champernoune. 

That  cursed  school!    Why  did  you  mind  me  of  it? 

On  my  last  night  I'd  think  of  something  gayer. 

How  swift  all  crowds  to  memory  at  the  naming ! 

We  sniveling,  half-fed  brats  in  outworn  garments, 

Shabbily  genteel,  with  our  empty  stomachs; 

The  slavish  ushers,  and  the  brutal  master — 

How  we  would  cringe  to  look  upon  his  ferule! 

That  was  fine  breeding  for  my  father's  son — 

The  eldest  son  of  Roland  Champernoune  I 

Why  did  you  mind  me  of  those  wretched  schooldays — 

The  days  that  seared  like  iron  to  my  soul — 

The  days  that  warped  me  from  the  man  God  meant  me ! 

Tavernier. 

My  faith,  this  night  I  thought  upon  a  youngster, 
Half  French  by  birth,  that  stumbled  in  your  language, 
Wretched  and  homesick,  exiled  into  Bromwich. 
And  there  he  found  a  certain  English  Harry 
That  stood  his  friend 

Champernoune. 

You  were  a  piteous  young  one! 

Tavernier. 

And  fought  his  fights,  and  cheered  him. 
I've  not  forgotten,  Harry! 

Champernoune. 

Nonsense,  Michael! 


io8     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Tavernier. 

'Tis  a  shrewd  turn  I  should  be  here  on  duty — 
Should  head  the  guard  that,  on  to-morrow  morning- 


Champernoune. 

Chances  of  war,  friend  Michael!     Luck  go  with  you! 
And  from  my  heart  my  thanks  for  your  kind  usage. 

Tavernier. 

Good  night  to  you!     And  take  my  counsel,  Harry! 
Eat  of  this  food. 

Champernoune. 
I  am  not  hungry. 

Tavernier. 

Nonsense ! 
Eat,  and  ere  midnight,  when  the  guard  is  shifted. 
Good  night! 

Champernoune. 

Good  night!     Ah,  Michael! 

Tavernier. 

Yes. 

Champernoune. 

One  service! 
This  letter,  could  you  send  it  as  'tis  addressed? 
Nay,  'tis  no  trick,  no  more  than  private  business, 
Writ  to  mine  agent,  over  seas  in  London, 
Bids  him  deliver  certain  sums  of  money. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     109 

Tavernier. 
To  whom? 

Champernoune. 
A  certain  man. 

Tavernier. 

Deal  plainly  with  me. 

Champernoune. 

A  certain  man  has  rendered  me — a  service, 

Here  in  your  France — aye,  served  me  to  my  liking! 

I  would  requite  him,  even  as  I  promised. 

Tavernier. 

What     service?     Harry,     come!     You     must     speak 
plainly. 

Champernoune. 
To  you,  then!     On  your  honor,  you'll  be  silent? 

Tavernier 
My  hand  upon  it.     Well  ? 

Champernoune. 

I  know  not,   Michael. 
'Tis  a  long  tale,  and  little  time  is  left  us. 
There  was  a  woman — man,  it  was  my  mother, 
No  longer  young,  and  proud,  and  in  a  dotage 
She  saw  and  loved  that  handsome  rake,  my  father, 
Sf*^  Roland  Champernoune,  the  worst  in  England. 


no     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

He  wedded  her,  and  with  full  hands  he  scattered 
The  fortune  that  she  brought.     Among  his  harlots 
He  wasted  it,  and  mocked  her. 

Tavernier. 

Miserable! 

Champernoune. 

Then  one  there  was,  a  painted,  brazen  madam, 
By  nation  French,  by  nature  demi-devil, 
And  she  ensnared  him,  warier  than  the  others. 
Higher  she  aimed,  would  have  no  less  than  marriage. 
And  for  her  sake — you  hear  me,  man  ? — my  mother 
Was  thrust  from  her  due  place,  her  marriage  voided, 
And  I,  a  five  years'  child,  declared  a  bastard. 

Tavernier. 
My  poor  friend! 

Champernoune. 

True,  as  God  looks  on  us,  Michael! 
But  'twas  a  woman  of  great  heart,  my  mother, 
My  gray  old  mother !     Faith,  she  never  yielded. 
Year  after  year  she  fought  the  case  through  law  courts, 
Laughed  at,  derided,  mocked,  but  never  vanquished — 
And  while  we  fought,  we  starved,  I  and  my  mother ! 
Starved,  and  held  on — held  on 

Tavernier 

You  English  Harry! 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     in 

Champernoune. 

I  starved  at  Bromwich,  but  I  lived  in  plenty 
Beside  the  way  she  fared,  my  brave  old  mother! 
All  in  her  rusty  black  I  mind  her,  Michael, 
Her  grim,  gray  face  that  never  smiled  upon  me. 
In  all  her  life  but  once  I  saw  her  smiling. 

Tavernier. 

That  was 

Champernoune. 

The  day  on  which  the  suit  was  ended. 
And  judgment  given  at  last,  and  in  our  f^vor. 
The  name  of  Champernoune  was  mine — the  fortune — 
And  when  she  knew,  she  smiled,  my  gray  old  mother. 
She    smiled — and    died.     Long   since    her    heart    was 

broken. 
But  she  had  lived  until  her  work  was  ended. 

Tavernier. 
Your  English  mothers — and  you  English  men! 

Champernoune. 

He  had  died  drunken  years  before,  my  father. 
But  there  remained  the  painted  jade  his  mistress. 
And  there  remained  the  brats  that  she  had  brought  him, 
Three  bastard  brats  that  had  been  softly  nourished, 
The  while  my  mother  starved. 

Tavernier. 

And  what  then,  Harry? 


112     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune. 

Justice — aye,  justice!     For  each  bitter  hour 
My  mother  bore — for  every  groan  wrung  from  her — 
I  would  have  groans  from  them,  in  equal  measure — 
From  her,  the  harlot,  and  her  nameless  children! 

Tavernier. 

And  you're  the  Harry  that  we  thought  a  jester, 
A  merry,  careless  lad  in  Bromwich  schooldays. 

Champernoune. 

Jester?     Egad!     It's  been  a  bitter  jesting, 

As  more  than  one  have  found.     For  I  had  money, 

Now  I  was  Champernoune,  and  money,  mark  you, 

'Twill  buy  most  things.     And  vengeance  for  my  mother 

It  will  buy  too.     As  for  the  woman,  lately 

She  died,  the  mistress  of  a  blackleg  captain. 

'Tis  said  he  used  to  beat  her.     It  is  likely. 

She  had  grown  foul  of  face.     As  for  her  eldest, 

He  died,  half-drunken,  in  a  tavern  riot. 

The  second,  a  young  ruffian  from  whose  horse-heels — 

(I  mind  me  well!) — the  mud  splashed  o'er  my  mother 

And  made  him  laugh,  one  day  I'd  not  forgotten. 

He  pined  and  died  within  a  debtors'  prison. 

Tavernier, 
And  had  you  any  part  therein,  Sir  Henry? 

Champernoune. 

When  fruit  is  ripe  to  fall,  if  a  chance  passer 
Should  shake  the  bough — what  harm? 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     113 

Tavernier. 

Your  third  half-brother? 

Champernoune. 

No  brother,  sir,  of  mine. 

Tavernier. 

Your  father's  son,  though. 

Champernoune. 

Name  him  no  brother !     'Twas  that  woman's  offspring. 
Her  third  son,  Owen — faith,  he  lacks  a  surname ! 
A  long-limbed  youth  of  sixteen — eighteen  summers, 
He  should  be  now.     I  have  no  need  to  see  him. 
That  woman's  son  he  is.     Well,  lately,  Michael, 
I  heard  he  dwelt  in  France,  among  her  kindred. 
Now  there's  a  certain  man 

Tavernier 
(Indicating  the  letter). 

The  one  here  mentioned? 

Champernoune. 

A  skilful  helper  on  of  fates  predestined! 

I  pledged  him  a  round  sum.     He  chose  his  methods. 

Nothing  I  know  thereof,  nor  care  to  know. 

A  week  agone  he  sent  the  word  I  waited — 

Unto  this  coast  I  came,  solely  to  hear  it: 

The  harlot's  sons  will  soon  be  met  together, 

In  hell,  'tis  like,  and  so  my  work  is  ended ! 


114     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Tavernier 
(In   frank   horror). 
Sir  Henry  Champernoune ! 

Champernoune. 

You  have  my  story. 
Now  will  you  speed  that  letter,  as  you  promised? 

Tavernier. 
Blood  money,  is  it,  to  your  paid  assassin? 

Champernoune. 

There  are  so  many  of  that  trade,  good  Captain, 
In  your  fair  France!     Take  it  or  leave  it,  Michael! 
You  are  no  judge  to  sit  in  judgment  on  me. 
You  saw  not  the  long  years  my  mother  suffered. 

Tavernier. 

And    for   her   sake   you've  snared    them,    your  half- 
brothers. 
'Twas  not  well  done,  my  Harry,  and  you  know  it. 
A  dangerous  game!     It  haps  sometimes  the  fowler 
Is  meshed  in  his  own  snare.     Give  up  such  practice 
Henceforth,  old  friend! 

Champernoune. 

Henceforth?     A  word  I'm  done  with! 

To-morrow     morn Ah,     well!     Had     I     not 

hankered 
To  know  him  sped,  this  Owen,  I'd  not  ventured 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     115 

Into  your  France.     The  snare  you  speak  of.  Michael. 
Has  closed  on  me  already,  to  your  liking. 
Are  you  content  ? 

Tavernier. 

I'm  sorry! 

Champernoune. 

For  to-morrow? 

I'm  sorry  too!     My  head  upon  my  shoulders 
I  like  far  better  than  placed  otherwhere. 

Tavernier. 

Old  jester  still,  though  now  your  jests  are  bitter — 
Bitter  as  death !     Well,  I  will  send  your  letter. 

Champernoune. 
I  thank  you,  Michael ! 

Tavernier. 

And  once  more 

Champernoune. 

Well,  say  it! 

Tavernier. 

Nothing!     Sleep  well!     Yet  ere  you  sleep,  my  Harry, 
Best  eat!     'Twill  hearten  }'ou  against  to-morrow. 

Champernoune. 

Well,  well,  I'd  venture  more  to  please  you,  Michael! 
And  so  good  night! 


ii6     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 
Tavernier. 

Good  night  to  you,  friend  Harry! 
[Tavernier  goes  out. 

Champernoune. 

It  is  a  long  good  night  indeed,  I  take  it! 

Ah,  well!     'Tis  a  droll  ending  to  the  journey! 

[Takes  snuff. 

To-morrow  morn  at  six 

[YwAiN,  roused  by  the  sound  of  Tavernier's 
exit,  has  sat  up  slowly  on  the  cot.  He  is  a 
lad  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  small  for  his  age 
and  slight,  with  fair  hair  and  a  sensitive 
face.  He  wears  the  dress  of  a  peasant,  full 
breeches,  short  jacket,  and  a  loose,  white 
shirt.  His  left  knee  is  roughly  swathed  in 
bloodstained  bandages. 

YwAIN  ' 

(In  blank  surprise,  as  he  sees  Champernoune^. 
M'sieu! 

Champernoune. 

Well,  comrade? 

YWAIN. 

But  you — but  you — you  were  not  here  aforetime. 
When  I  lay  down  to  sleep  the  room  was  empty. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     117 

Champernoune 

(Throughout  with  light  and  kindly  raillery). 

I  grieve  that  any  way  my  presence  irks  you. 
My  coming  here — 'twas  not  of  my  desire. 

YWAIN. 

Then  you — you  too,  you  are  a  prisoner,  m'sieu? 

Champernoune. 
A  most  sagacious  lad!     You've  hit  it,  brother! 

YWAIN. 

And  come  to-morrow  morn,  you  too 


Champernoune. 

YWAIN. 


Precisely  I 


Ah,  I  am  glad! 


Champernoune. 

You   scarce   are   complimentary. 

Ywain. 

Ah,  m'sieu,  if  you  would  but  hear  my  meaning. 

I  said  it  stupidly.     My  head's  so  tired. 

What  I  did  aim  at — 'tis  so  lonely,  mark  you — 

Lonely  to  lie  here,  counting  the  slow  hours, 

And  knowing  that,  come  six  to-morrow  morning- 


Champernoune. 
You  poor  young  devil! 


ii8     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

YWAIN. 

Pray  you,   do   not   pity, 
Or  I  may  cry,  and  you  may  think  me — frightened. 
I  am  not  frightened,  truly,  but  'tis — tedious 
Here,  the  slow  hours — and  to-morrow  sunrise — 
There  in  the  tumbril,  you'll  be  there  beside  me? 

Champernoune. 

Tis  likely!     Miracles  are  out  of  fashion. 

You  may  rest  easy.     I'll  be  with  you,  comrade! 

My  hand  upon  it! 

YWAIN. 

When  you  speak  so  hearty. 
My  faith,  it  does  not  seem  so  hard,  this  dying! 
And  you  will  stand  beside  me  in  the  tumbril  ? 

Champernoune. 
If  'tis  permitted  me. 

YWAIN. 

And  will  you  promise, 
If  'tis  not  far  too  great  a  thing  I'm  asking, 
That  in  the  tumbril,  if  you  see  me  falter. 
And  turning  white — it  well  may  be,  you  see,  sir, 
For  this  smashed  knee  o'  mine,  it  aches  and  twinges. 
I  have  been  near  to  crying  out,  odd  minutes. 

Champernoune. 

Poor  little  chap!     No,  no!     I  did  not  pity. 
Go  on! 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     iig 

YWAIN. 

Why,  if  you  chance  to  see  me  paling, 
To-morrow  morn,  will  you  but  look  upon  me, 
Hearty  and  kind,  as  you  were  saying:    Comrade! 
I  shall  stand  steadier  then. 

Champernoune. 

I  will  remember. 

YWAIN. 

For  it  were  hard,  sir,  there,  at  the  last  moment, 
To  see  no  look  of  kindness. 

Champernoune. 

Fear   not,   comrade! 

Ywain. 
I  thank  you,  m'sieu.     And — and  one  thing  tell  me! 

Champernoune. 
A  dozen,   if  I  can! 

Ywain. 

Will  it  hurt  greatly? 

Champernoune. 
Eh,  brother? 

Ywain. 
Hurt.     The  knife,  I  mean — the  knife,  sir. 
I  am  not  frightened,  no.     But  will  it  hurt — much? 


I20     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune. 
Dear  God !     He  is  too  young.     You  might  have  pity. 

YWAIN. 

Well,  m'sieu? 

Champernoune. 

'Twill  not  be  for  long,  my  comrade ! 
A  moment,  and  thereafter,  a  great  quiet — 
And  peace,  and  stillness. 

YWAIN. 

But  that  moment,  m'sieu? 

Champernoune. 

I  shall  be  close  beside  you.    They  shall  grant  that. 
And  I  will  help  you  all  I  can.     Dost  hear  me? 

Ywain. 

Yes,  m'sieu,  yes!     And  if  you  think  me — crying — 
'Tis  only  that  the  ache,  here  in  my  kneecap ' 

Champernoune. 

Aye,  surely!     Well  I  know  you  are  not  frightened. 
Now  think  no  more  of  what  must  be  to-morrow. 
Nor  speak  thereof. 

Ywain. 

will  not,  sir,  I  promise. 

Champernoune. 
Canst  sleep  again? 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     121 

YWAIN. 

No,  m'sieu,  I  am  sorry. 
But  in  my  brain,  'tis  like  the  bees  a-buzzing. 
One  thought  comes  swarming,  and  another  after — 
And  then  another No,  I  cannot  sleep,  sir. 

Champernoune. 
Why,  then  you  best  had  eat. 

YWAIN. 

I  am  not  hungered. 

Champernoune 

(Takes  food  and  wine  from  table  and  gives  to  YwAiN^. 
Come,  come!     You'll  be  the  better  for  it,  comrade. 
Look  you,  I'm  fain  to  eat.     You  must  share  with  me. 
Here,  drink  you  this!     That's  my  good  lad!     Come! 
Drink  it ! 

YWAIN. 

You  are  right  kind!     And  'tis  good  wine  is  this,  sir. 
They  use  you  better  far  than  they  have  used  me. 
Must  I  eat  this? 

Champernoune. 
Try,  lad!     You'll  feel  the  better. 

Ywain. 
Against  to-morrow! 


122     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Ch  AMPERNOUN  E. 

Speak  not  of  to-morrow. 
Speak  of  aught  else.    Tell  me  what  chance  has  brought 

you 
To  such  a  pass. 

[Sits  by  fire. 

YWAIN. 

scarce  can  tell  you,  m'sieu. 
'Twas  all  so  strange  and  swift.     I  have  a  kinsman. 
He  dwells  in  England.     You  are  English,  m'sieu? 

Champernoune. 
In  truth. 

YWAIN. 

I'm  glad.     For  I  am  English  also. 

Champernoune 
I  scarce  had  guessed  it. 

YWAIN. 

Yet  in  truth  I'm  English, 
In  England  born,  and  bred  there  in  my  childhood. 

Champernoune. 
Your  childhood?     Pitying  saints!     It  is  not  ended. 

Ywain. 

But  she  had  little  love  for  me,  my  mother. 

Her  love  was  all  for  them,  my  elder  brothers. 

So  when  my  father  died  and  things  went  crosswise — 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     123 

Look  you,  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  wherefores — 
I  was  so  young — but  I  was  an  encumbrance. 
And  so  they  packed  me  into  France,  and  here,  sir, 
I  have  not  been  too  happy. 

Champernoune. 

'Tis  hard  measure 
A  child  should  go  unhappy.     I  remember 
How  hard  that  measure.     I  remember  Bromwich. 
Well,  lad? 

YWAIN. 

And  here  at  first  I  dwelt  with  kindred. 
Cousins  they  were,  and  kind,  in  distant  fashion, 
So  long  as  money  came  for  my  maintaining. 
But  long  since  it  has  ceased,  and  so — 'twas  fair,  sir, 
I  should  turn  to  and  do  my  share  of  labor. 
If  I'd  not  worked  so  hard,  I'd  'a'  grown  taller. 
Do  you  not  think  so,  sir? 

Champernoune. 
It  may  be. 


YWAIN. 


Look  you! 


I  was  so  fain  to  grow  to  be  a  tall  man. 
Like  to  my  father  and  my  eldest  brother. 
I  should  have  liked  full  well  to  be  a  soldier. 
In  England,  see  you,  they  are  gentle  people, 
My  father's  people.     Aye,  sir,  I  am  eating. 
Although  I  talk. 


124    THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune, 
I  see  you  are,  my  brother! 

YWAIN. 

"  My  brother !  "  Truth,  I  like  to  hear  you  say  it, 
Lightly,  that  way.  I  wonder  do  you  know  him. 
My  real,  own  brother,  since  you  too  are  English? 

Champernoune. 
*Tis  a  wide  land,  is  England. 

YWAIN. 

Yet  my  brother. 
You  well  might  know  his  name,  perchance  have  seen 

him. 
He's  a  great  gentleman,  and  a  good  soldier, 
So  all  men  say. 

Champernoune. 
Well,  what's  his  name,  your  brother? 

YWAIN. 

Sir  Henry  Champernoune  of  Slayne  in  Surrey. 

Champernoune. 
Sir  Henry 


[Rises,  and  hastily  pours  himself  a  cup  of  wine. 

YWAIN. 

M'sieu!     What  is  wrong?     I  pray  you! 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     125 

Champerkoune 

(Thickly). 

Naught  but  my  fancy — that  I'll  taste  this  wine,  too. 

[DHnks. 
A  good  draught,  yes!     What  were  you  saying,  com- 
rade? 

YWAIN. 

"  Brother,"  you  said  before. 

Champernoune. 

Well,  then — my  brother, 
What  name  was  it  you  said?     I  heard  not  clearly. 

YWAIX. 

Sir  Henr}-  Champernoune  of  Slayne  in  Surrey. 
My  brother's  name,  of  whom  we  spoke  aforetime. 

Champernoune 

(After  a  moment's  blank  silence). 

But  'tis  not  possible.     Your  name — he  said  it. 

The  Captain  here.     You're  Ywain — ^and  Chauvigny. 

You're  never  Champernoune. 

YWAIN. 

Not  here  in  France,  sir. 
My  cousin's  name  I  b«iar,  old  Jehan  Chauvigny, 
And  Ywain  they  have  made  my  name.     But  Owen 
I  was  baptized,  sir,  yonder,  there  in  England, 
And  Champernoune  of  Slayne,  he  was  my  father. 


126     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune 
(Turning  away  to  the  hearth). 
Ah,  yes!     I  see — afar!     I  am  a  jester. 
So  Michael  said.     But  now  methinks  a  greater 
And  grimmer  Jester  makes  of  me  his  plaything. 

YWAIN 

And  so  you  do  not  know  my  brother  Harry? 

Champernoune. 
Egad !     I  have  my  doubts  if  e'er  I  knew  him. 
Yet  I  made  sure. 

[^Turns  to  YwAiN. 
But  unto  you  what  is  he, 
This  eldest  brother  ?     You  have  never  seen  him. 

YWAIN. 

Ah,  but  I  have. 

Champernoune. 

What! 

YWAIN. 

There  at  Slayne  in  Surrey, 
The  gaunt  old  house,  there  was  his  portrait  hanging, 
In  a  dim  chamber,  and  a  serving  woman, 
Long  time  at  Slayne,  she  told  me  'twas  my  brother — 
My  eldest  brother,  little  Master  Harry. 

Champernoune. 
That  would  be  poor  old  Dorothy,  God  rest  her ! 
That  nursed  me  in  her  arms. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     127 

YWAIN. 

And  I  was  lonely, 
There  at  cold  Slayne,  and  he  too,  he  was  lonely, 
Hanging  all  day,  there  in  the  dust  and  cobwebs. 
So  I  would  go  and  play  beneath  his  portrait. 
And  sometimes  from  his  frame  he'd  smile  upon  me, 
And  sometimes  he'd  come  down  and  be  my  playmate. 

Champernoune. 
Owen!     You're  daft! 

YWAIN. 

Yes,   he,   my  brother  Harry, 

He  used  to  come No,  no!     I  am  but  talking. 

I  was  so  little,  sir,  and  very  lonely. 

I  fancied  it,  no  doubt.     'Tis  very  childish, 

Such  strange  things  come  to  mind,  now  I  am  dying, 

Or  very  soon  to  die.     But  he,  my  brother, 

He  grew  so  dear  to  me.     'Twas  my  half-brother. 

In  truth,  sir. 

Champernoune 
Ah!     You  do  admit  as  much,  then? 

YWAIN. 

But  w^e  were  of  one  father.     And  this  Harry, 

He  seemed  to  me  far  nearer  than  the  others, 

My  full-blood  brothers,  that  were  rough  and  mocked 

me. 
I  knew  he  would  be  different  from  those  others. 
I  knew  we  should  be  friends,  if  I  might  find  him. 
So  when  he  wrote 


128     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune. 
He  wrote? 

YWAIN. 

Such  a  kind  letter! 
And  sent  by  a  sure  hand. 

Champernoune. 

The  man  that  brought  it? 

YWAIN. 

A  keen,  tall  fellow,  with  black  hair.     A  white  scar 
Here  on  his  cheek 

Champernoune. 

Go  on!     Full  well  I  know  him. 

YWAIN. 

My  brother  prayed  me  come  to  him  in  England, 
My  brother  Harry,  and  he  sent  me  money. 
I  was  to  go  to  him.     Think  on  it,  m'sieu! 

Champernoune. 
I'm  hearing  all  your  words. 

YWAIN. 

And  there  were  papers 
That  I  should  bear  to  him. 

Champernoune. 

The  snare!     I  see  it. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     129 

YWAIX. 

But  of  a  truth  there  must  have  been  foul  deah'ng, 
For  I  was  stopped,  a  little  on  my  journey. 
They    stopped    and    searched    me,    and    those    papers, 
m'sieu 

Champernoune. 
Dear  God !     I  did  not  know  he  was  so  little. 

YWAIN. 

They  said  they  showed  I  was  a  spy  for  England. 
But  I'm  no  spy.     I  only  w'ent  to  seek  him — 
My  brother  that  had  bidden  me  unto  him. 
Such  a  kind  letter!     I  would  show  it  to  you. 
I'd  fain  have  kept  it,  but  they  took  it  from  me. 
Perchance  they  held  that  even  that  was  treason. 
My  brother's  letter!     O  my  brother  Harry! 

Champernoune. 
I  doubt  if  God  rejoice  in  me  this  hour. 

Ywain. 

Think  you  'twill  be  a  bitter  loss  to  him, 
The  papers  they  took  from  me?     I'd  be  sorry 
That  he  had  any  harm  through  me,  my  brother. 

Champernoune. 
God's  word,  have  done!     I  cannot  bear  this  talking. 

Ywain. 
M'sieu! 


I30     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune. 

There,  there!     I  meant  naught.    Eat,  but  quiet! 
I'm  weary — cannot  talk.     Your  pardon,  comrade! 
Nor  can  I  listen.     Ah,  just  God  of  justice! 
What  have  I  done  that  set  the  snare  that  took  him  ? 

YWAIN 

(While  he  watches  Champernoune,  puzzled  and 
anxious,  he  has  crumbled  his  bread  in  his  hands,  and 
he  now  finds  in  it  a  key). 

Ah!     What  is  here?     M'sieu!     I  pray  you! 


Champernoune. 

YWAIN. 


Well,  lad? 


Hush!     What  is  here? 

Champernoune 
(Going  to  YwAix^. 

A  key!     Whence  came  it,  Owen? 

YWAIN. 

Here  in  the  loaf. 

Champernoune. 

A  scroll  is  wrapped  around  it. 
Patiently !     So  I 

YWAIN. 

What  is  it?     Ah!     What  is  it? 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     131 

Champernoune. 

This  sure  was  done  with  your  conniving,  Michael! 
God's  blessing  on  ye!  Life!  Until  this  moment 
I  had  not  known  the  face  of  death  was  dreadful. 

YWAIN. 

What  is  it,  m'sieu?     Won't  you  tell  me,  m'sieu? 

Champernoune 
'Tislife! 

YWAIN. 

Life! 

Champernoune. 

You'll  go  with  me  unto  England, 
And  we  will  find  him  that  you  seek,  your  brother. 

YWAIN. 

M'sieu! 

Champernoune. 
And  he'll  be  good  to  you,  I  promise! 

YWAIN. 

But  how  shall  we  make  shift 

Champernoune. 

A  key  is  sent  us. 
This  will  unlock  the  door  upon  the  lobby. 
The  guard  is  bribed  that  keeps  the  watch  till  mid- 
night. 
We  may  pass  down  the  lobby 


132     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

YWAIN. 

Ah,  but  wait,  sir! 
There  is  the  wall  to  scale,  the  drop  beyond  it 
Into  the  ditch. 

Champernoune. 

A  trifle,  lad,  a  trifle, 
When  a  man's  life  doth  hang  upon  the  service. 
Then  but  a  mile 

YWAIN. 

A  mile! 

Champernoune. 

Across  the  country. 
And  there  a  horse  awaits  us.     Faith,  'tis  simple! 
Now  quickly,  for  the  hour  draws  near  to  midnight. 
We've  little  time  to  waste.     Up  with  you,  Owen! 

YWAIN.  , 

I  cannot,  m'sieu. 

Champernoune. 

What!     Affrighted,  are  you — 
You  that  have  called  yourself  a  Champernoune! 
Come,  child !     'Tis  simple. 

YWAIN. 

Simple,  do  you  call   it? 
For  you,  perchance.     I  have  a  broken  kneecap. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     133 

Champernoune. 
God's  death!     I  had  forgotten. 

YWAIN. 

There's  the  wall, 
And  the  wide  ditch,  and  then  that  mile  of  walking. 
Why  must  my  knee  be  broken  ?     I  can't  do  it. 
I  can't!     I  can't!     I  can't!     O  God  of  pity! 

Champernoune. 

Stand  up!    We'll  try! 

[Raises  YwAiN  to  his  feet, 

YWAIN. 

M'sieu!     The  room  is  whirling. 
The  pain !     Ah,  let  me  be ! 

[Sinks  half  fainting  on  cot. 

Champernoune. 

I   cannot   take   him. 

[Goes  to  hearth. 
And  life  waits  yonder — and  the  plan  is  simple — 
Only  a  wall,  a  ditch,  a  mile  to  cover! 
Life  waits  me  there,  and  years  I  have  gone  starving. 

Ywain. 
M'sieu! 

Champernoune. 
Well!    Well! 


134     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

YWAIN. 

The  time  draws  near  to  midnight. 
You  should  be  gone. 

Champernoune. 
Be  still! 

YWAIN. 

You're  fit  to  travel. 
Well,  then! 

Champernoune. 

No,  no  I     God's  mercy !     Do  not  tempt  me ! 

YWAIN. 

WTiat  should  you  else?     I'm  nothing  to  j^ou,  m'sieu. 
Why  should  you  stay  ?     No  child  am  I  to  need  you. 
And  they  are  brave,  the  Champernounes,  my  fathers! 

Champernoune. 
And  yonder — life — for  which  I  have  gone  starving! 

YWAIN. 

So  do  you  go.     And  as  you  say,  to-morrow 
'Twill  be  but  a  brief  moment.     Go,  I  pray  you ! 
I  am  not  frightened. 

Champernoune 

(Going  to  the  door). 

Now  may  God  forgive  me! 

[Unlocks  door. 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     135 

YWAIN. 

And  so  good  night,  m'sieu!     And  there  in  England, 
If  you  should  see  him — him — my  brother  Harry 


Champernoune. 
I  cannot  stay  to  hear  you  out,  my  comrade. 
Good-by ! 

[Champernoune  goes  out. 

YWAIN. 

Good-by!     He  might  have  said:  "  My  brother!  " 
For  the  last  time,  he  might  have  said:  "  My  brother!  " 
And  now  at  dawn  to-morrow  in  the  tumbril — 
O  pitying  Christ!     It  will  be  very  lonely. 

[YwAiN  drops  down  on  the  cot,  with  his  face 
hidden.  Champernoune  comes  again 
quietly,  with  bent  head,  into  the  room.  He 
pauses  by  the  cot,  and  after  a  moment,  as  if 
sensing  his  presence,  YwAiN  lifts  his  head. 
But  you — m'sieu,  you  are  come  back  again? 


I  am  come  back. 


Champernoune. 

YWAIN. 

You  had — forgotten  somewhat? 

Champernoune, 
I  had  forgotten  much  were  best  remembered. 

Ywain. 
The  time  is  very  short. 


136     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Champernoune. 

Aye,  short,  my  brother! 

YWAIN. 

Oh,  pray  you — pray  you!     Go!     This  makes  it  harder. 
Oh,  pray  you,  go,  while  I  can  say:  God  speed  ye! 
Oh,  gp!  go!  go! 

\_Sinks  down,  sobbing  heavily,  on  cot. 

Champernoune 

(Bending  over  YwAlN^. 

Owen!     My  little  brother! 
Don't !     Don't  cry  so !     Listen !     I  shall  not  leave  you. 

YWAIN. 

I  will  not  hold  you  back — indeed  I  will  not! 
But  oh!  you've  made  it  cruel  hard  to  me! 

Champernoune. 

Aye,  cruel  hard  I've  made  it  to  you,  Owen, 
And  cruel  hardness  I  must  suffer  for  it. 
Here  in  this  hour — and  perchance  hereafter. 

YWAIN. 

But  go!     But  go! 

Champernoune. 

Fain  would  I,  but  I  dare  not, 
Lest  He  say:  Champernoune,  where  is  thy  brother? 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     137 

YWAIN 

(Looking  up). 
Lest  He  say:  Champernoune 

Champernoune. 

'Tis  my  name,  Owen, 
Sir  Henry  Champernoune. 

YWAIN. 

My  brother  Harry? 

Champernoune. 
Aye. 

YWAIN 

(Clinging  to  him). 

You?     Oh,  let  me  look  at  you  more  nearly! 
Don't  turn  from  me!     Oh,  did  you  come  to  seek  me? 

Champernoune. 
Aye,  for  your  sake  it  was  I  made  this  journey. 

Ywain. 
Harry!     And  so  through  me  you'll  die  to-morrow! 

Champernoune. 
And  so  through  mine  own  act 


[/«   the  lobby   without  is  audible   the   muffled 
tread  of  feet. 


138     THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER 

YWAIN. 

You  hear?    The  footsteps — 
The  clank  of  anus! 

Champernoune. 

It  is  the  guard  is  shifting. 

YWAIN. 

Midnight  ? 

Champernoune. 
li\  faith! 

YWAIN. 

Your  chance!     Your  chancel     You've  lost  it! 

Champernoune. 
The  fowler  in  his  snare!  , 

YWAIN. 

And    on    the    morrow 


Champernoune. 

[^Standing    by    the    cot,    with    his    arm    about 
YwAiN,  who  is  half  kneeling. 
Upon  the  morrow  I  shall  be  beside  you, 
As  I  have  earned  to  be.     Nay,  courage,  Owen! 
Only  a  moment 


THE  SNARE  AND  THE  FOWLER     139 

YWAIN 

(Lifting  a  face  full  of  trust). 

And  then  peace  and  stillness, 

You  said! 

[His    head    sinks    against    Champernoune's 


breast. 


Champernoune. 
Aye,  peace — such  as  I  know  this  hour! 


CURTAIN 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 


THE  PEOPLE 

Hugh  Talbot 
John  Talbot 
Dick  Fenton 
Myles  Butler 
Phelimy  Driscoll 
Kit  Newcombe 

THE  PLACE 

The  Gatehouse  of  the  Bridge  of  Cashala,  in  the  Prov- 
ince of  Connaught 

THE  PERIOD 

The  Cromwellian  invasion  of  Ireland 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

/N  the  cheerless  hour  before  the  dawn  of  a  wet 
spring  morning  five  gentlemen-troopers  of  the 
broken  Royalist  army,  fagged  and  outworn  with 
three  long  days  of  siege,  are  holding,  with  what  strength 
and  courage  are  left  them,  the  Gatehouse  of  the 
Bridge  of  Cashala,  which  is  the  key  to  the  road  that 
leads  into  Connaught.  The  upper  chamber  of  the 
Gatehouse,  in  which  they  make  their  stand,  is  a  narrow, 
dim-lit  apartment,  built  of  stone.  At  one  side  (stage 
left)  is  a  small  fireplace,  and  beside  it  a  narrow, 
barred  door,  which  leads  to  the  stairhead.  At  the  end 
of  the  room  (center,  back)  gained  by  a  single  raised 
step,  are  three  slit-like  windows,  breast-high,  designed, 
as  now  used,  for  defense  in  time  of  war.  The  room 
is  meagerly  furnished,  icith  a  table  (stage  right)  on 
which  are  powder  flask,  touch  box,  etc.,  for  charg- 
ing guns,  a  stool  or  two,  and  an  open  keg  of  powder. 
The  li'hole  look  of  the  place,  bare  and  martial,  but 
depressed,  bespeaks  a  losing  fight.  On  the  hearth  the 
ashes  of  a  fire  are  white,  and  on  the  chimneypiece  a 
brace  of  candles  are  guttering  out. 

The  five  men  who  hold  the  Gatehouse  ivear  much 
soiled  and  torn  military  dress.     They  are  pale,  powder- 
begrimed,  sunken-eyed,  with  every  mark  of  weariness 
of  body  and  soul.     Their  leader,  John  Talbot,  is 
143 


144       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

standing  at  one  of  the  shot-windows,  with  piece 
presented,  looking  forth.  He  is  in  his  mid-twenties, 
of  Norman-Irish  blood,  and  distinctly  of  a  finer,  more 
nervous  type  than  his  companions.  He  has  been 
wounded,  and  bears  his  left  hand  wrapped  in  a  bloody 
rag.  Dick  Fenton,  a  typical,  careless  young 
English  swashbuckler,  sits  by  the  table,  charging  a 
musket,  and  singing  beneath  his  breath  as  he  does  so. 
He,  too,  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  a  bandage 
about  his  knee.  Upon  the  floor  (at  right)  Kit  New- 
combe  lies  in  the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  He  is  an 
English  lad,  in  his  teens,  a  mere  tired,  haggard  child, 
with  his  head  rudely  bandaged.  On  a  stool  by  the 
hearth  sits  Myles  Butler,  a  man  of  John  Talbot's 
own  years,  but  of  a  slower,  heavier,  almost  sullen  type. 
Beside  him  kneels  Phelimy  Driscoll,  a  nervous, 
dark  Irish  lad,  of  one  and  twenty.  He  is  resting  his 
injured  arm  across  Butler's  knee,  and  BuTLER  is 
roughly  bandaging  the  hurt. 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  weary,  heavy  silence,  in 
which  the  words  of  the  song  which  Fenton  sings  are 
audible.  It  is  the  doleful  old  strain  of  "  the  hanging- 
tune." 

Fenton 

(Singing). 

"  Fortune,  my  foe,  why  dost  thou   frown  on  me, 
And  will  thy  favors  never  greater  be? 
Wilt  thou,  I  say,  forever  breed  me  pain, 
And  wilt  thou  not  restore  my  joys  again  ?  " 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       145 

Butler 
(Shifting  Driscoll's  arm,  none  too  tenderly). 
More  to  the  light! 

Driscoll 
(Catching  breath  with  pain). 
Ah!     Softly,  Myles! 

John  Talbot 
(Leaning  forward  tensely). 
Ah! 

Fenton. 
Jack!    Jack  Talbot!    What  is  it  that  you  see? 

John  Talbot 

(With  the  anger  of  a  man  whose  nerves  are  strained 
almost  beyond  endurance). 

What  should  I  see  but  Cromwell's  watch-fires  along 
the  boreen?  What  else  should  I  see,  and  the  night 
as  black  as  the  mouth  of  hell  ?  What  else  should  I  see, 
and  a  pest  choke  your  throat  with  your  fool's  ques- 
tions, Dick  Fenton! 

[Resumes  his  watch. 

Fenton 

(As  who  should  say:  "I  thank  you!") 

God  'a*  mercy — Captain  Talbot! 

[Resumes  his  singing. 


146       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Driscoll. 
God's  love!     I  bade  ye  have  a  care,  Myles  Butler. 

Butler 

(Tying  the  last  bandage). 

It's  a  stout  heart  you  have  in  you,  Phelimy  Driscoll 
— you  to  be  crying  out  for  a  scratch.  It's  better  you 
would  have  been,  you  and  the  like  of  you,  to  be  stop- 
ping at  home  with  your  mother. 

[Rises  and  takes  up  his  musket  from  the  corner 
by  the  fireplace. 

Driscoll. 

You — you  dare — you  call  me — coward?     Ye  black 

liar!     I'll  lesson  ye!     I'll . 

[Tries  to  rise,  but  in  the  effort  sways  weakly 
forward  and  rests  ivith  his  head  upon  the 
stool  which  Butler  has  quitted. 

Butler. 

A'  Heaven's  name,  ha*  done  with  that  hanging 
tune!  Ha'  done,  Dick  Fenton!  We're  not  yet  at  the 
gallows'   foot. 

[Joins  John  Talbot  at  the  shot-windows. 

Fenton. 

Nay,  Myles,  for  us  'tis  like  to  be  nothing  half  so 
merry  as  the  gallows. 

Butler. 
Hold  your  fool's  tongue! 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       147 

Newcombe 
(Crying  out  in  his  sleep). 
Oh!     Oh! 

John  Talbot. 
What  was  that? 

Fenton. 

Twas  naught  but  young  Newcombe  that  cried  out 
in  the  clutch  of  a  nightmare. 

Butler. 
'Tis  time  Kit  Newcombe  rose  and  stood  his  watch. 

John  Talbot 

(Leaving  the  window). 

Nay,  'tis  only  a  boy.     Let  him  sleep  while  he  can! 
Let  him  sleep! 

Butler. 

Turn   and   turn   at  the  watch,   'tis  but   fair.     Stir 
yonder  sluggard  awake,  Dick! 

Fenton. 
Aye. 

[Starts  to  rise. 

John  Talbot. 

Who  gives  commands  here?    Sit  you  down,  Fenton! 
To  5'our  place,  Myles  Butler! 


148       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Butler. 

Captain  of  the  Gate!  D'ye  mark  the  high  tone  of 
him,  Dick? 

John  Talbot 

(Tying  a  fresh  bandage  about  his  hand). 

You're  out  there,  Myles.  There  is  but  one  Captain 
of  the  Gate  of  Connaught — he  who  set  me  here — my 
cousin,  Hugh  Talbot. 

Butler 
(Muttering). 
Aye,  and  it's  a  deal  you'll  need  to  be  growing,  ere 
you  fill  Hugh  Talbot's  shoes. 

John  Talbot. 

And  that's  a  true  word!  But  'twas  Hugh  Talbot's 
will  that  I  should  command,  here  at  the  Bridge  of 
Cashala,     And  as  long  as  breath  is  in  me  I 

Driscoll 
(Raising  his  head  heavily). 
Water!     Water!      Myles!      Dick!     Will   ye   give 
me  to  drink,  lads?     Jack  Talbot!     I'm  choked  wi' 
thirst. 

John  Talbot. 
There's  never  a  drop  of  water  left  us,  Phelimy,  lad. 

Fenton. 
Owen  Bourke  drained  the  last  of  it,  God  rest  him! 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       149 

Butler. 
'Tis  likely  our  clever  new  Captain  of  the  Gate  will 
hit  on  some  shift  to  fill  our  empty  casks. 

[Driscoll  rises  heavily. 

John  Talbot. 
Not  the  new  Captain  of  the  Gate.     The  old  Cap- 
tain of  the  Gate — Hugh  Talbot.     He'll  be  here  this 
day — this  hour,  maybe. 

Fenton. 
That  tale  grows  something  old,  Jack  Talbot. 

John  Talbot. 

He  swore  he'd  bring  us  succor.     He 

[Driscoll  tries  to  unbar  the  exit  door. 
Driscoll!     Are   you    gone   mad?     Stand   you   back 
from  that  door! 

[Thrusts  Driscoll  from  the  door. 

Driscoll 
(Half  delirious). 
Let  me  forth!  The  spring — 'tis  just  below — there 
on   the  river-bank!     Let  me  slip  down  to  it — but  a 
moment — and  drink! 

John  Talbot. 
Cromwell's  soldiers  hold  the  spring. 

Driscoll. 

I  care  not!     Let  me  forth  and   drink!     Let  me 
forth! 


I50       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot. 
'Twould  be  to  your  death. 

Butler. 

And  what  will  he  get  but  his  death  if  he  stay  here, 
Captain  Talbot? 

Driscoll 

(Struggling  with  John  Talbot^. 

I'm  choked!     I'm  choked,  I  tell  ye!     Let  me  go. 
Jack  Talbot!     Let  me  go! 

Newcombe 

(Still  half  asleep,  rises  to  his  knees,  with  a  terrible  cry, 
and  his  groping  hands  upthrust  to  guard  his  head). 

God's  pity!     No!  no!  no! 

Driscoll 
(Shocked  into  sanity,  staggers  back,  crossing  himself). 
God  shield  us! 

Butler. 
Silence  that  whelp! 

Fenton. 
Clear  to  the  rebel  camp  they'll  hear  him! 

John  Talbot 
(Catching  Newcombe  by  the  shoulder). 
Newcombe!    Kit  Newcombe! 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       151 

Newcombe. 

Ah,  God!  Keep  them  from  me!  Keep  them  from 
me! 

John  Talbot. 
Ha'  done!     Ha'  done! 

Newcombe. 

Not  that !  Not  the  butt  of  the  muskets  I  Not  that ! 
Not  that! 

John  Talbot 

(Stifling  Newcombe's  outcry  with  a  hand  upon  his 
mouth). 

Wake!     You're  dreaming! 

Driscoll. 

'Tis  ill  luck!    'Tis  ill  luck  comes  of  such  dreaming! 

Newcomer. 

Drogheda!  I  dreamed  I  was  at  Drogheda,  where 
my  brother — my  brother — they  beat  out  his  brains — 
Cromwell's     men — with     their     clubbed     muskets — 

they 

[Clings  shuddering  to  John  Talbot. 

Fenton. 

English  officers  that  serve  amongst  the  Irish — 'tis 
thus  that  Cromwell  uses  them! 

Butler. 
English  officers — aye,  like  ourselves! 


152       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot. 

Be  quiet,  Kit!     You're  far   from  Drogheda — here 
at  the  Bridge  of  Cashala. 

Butler. 

Aye,  safe  in  Cashala  Gatehouse,  with  five  hundred 
of  Cromwell's  men  sitting  down  before  it. 

'        John  Talbot. 
Keep  your  watch,  Butler! 

Newcombe. 

You    give    orders?      You    still    command,    Jack? 
Where's  Captain  Talbot,  then? 

[Snatches  up  his  sword  and  rises. 


Butler 

Aye, 

where 

(Quitting  the  window), 
is  Captain  Talbot? 

You 

say 

John  Talbot. 
Fenton 

We  all  say 

(Rising). 
it. 

Even 

thou, 

John  Talbot. 
Dick? 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       153 

Driscoll. 
He  does  not  come!     Hugh  Talbot  does  not  come! 

Fenton. 

He  bade  us  hold  the  bridge  one  day.  We've  held 
it  three  days  now. 

Butler. 

And  where  is  Hugh  Talbot  with  the  aid  he 
promised  ? 

John  Talbot. 

He  promised.  He  has  never  broken  faith.  He 
will  bring  us  aid. 

Fenton. 
Aj'e,  if  he  be  living! 

Driscoll. 

Living?  You  mean  that  he — Och,  he's  dead! 
Hugh  Talbot's  dead!  And  we're  destroyed!  We're 
destroyed ! 

Newcombe 
(Cowering). 
The  butt  of  the  muskets! 

Fenton. 
God! 

[Deliberately  Butler  lays  down  his  musket. 


154       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot. 
Take  up  your  piece! 

Butler. 
Renounce  me  if  I  do! 

Fenton. 

I  stand  with  you,  Myles  Butler.  Make  terms  for 
us,  John  Talbot,  or  on  my  soul,  we'll  make  them  for 
ourselves. 

John  Talbot. 
Surrender  ? 

Newcombe. 

Will  Cromwell  spare  us,  an  we  yield  ourselves  now? 
Will  he  spare  us?    Will  he 

Fenton. 
'Tis  our  one  chance. 

Newcombe. 

Give  me  that  white  rag! 

[Crosses  and  snatches  a  bandage  from  chimney- 
piece. 

Fenton 

(Drawing  his  ramrod). 

Here's  a  staff! 

[Together    Fenton    and    Newcombe    make 
ready  a  flag  of  truce. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       i55 

John  Talbot. 
You  swore  to  hold  the  bridge. 

Butler. 

Swore  to  hold  it  one  day.    We've  held  it  three  days 
now. 

Fenton. 

And  the  half  of  us  are  slain. 

Newcombe. 
And  we've  no  water — and  no  food! 

John  Talbot 

(Pointing  to  the  powder  keg). 
We  have  powder  in  plenty. 

Driscoll. 

We  can't  drink  powder.     Ah,   for  God's  love,  be 
swift,  Dick  Fenton!     Be  swift! 

John  Talbot. 

You  shall  not  show  that  white  flag! 

[Starts  toward  Fenton,  hand  on  sword. 

Butler 

(Pinioning  John  TalbotJ. 

God's  death!    We  shall!    Help  me  here,  Phelimy! 


156       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot 
(Struggling  with  Butler  and  Driscoll^. 
A  black  curse  on  you! 

Butler. 
We'll  not  be  butchered  like  oxen  in  the  shambles! 

John  Talbot. 
Your  oaths! 

Butler. 

We'll  not  fight  longer  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  at 
the  last. 

Newcombe. 
No!    No!    Not  that!    Out  with  the  flag,  Dick! 

Fenton. 
A  light  here  at  the  grating! 

[Newcombe  turns  to  take  a  candle,  obedient  to 
Fenton's  order.  At  that  moment,  close  at 
hand,  a  bugle  sounds. 

John  Talbot. 
Hark! 

Driscoll. 

The  bugle!  They're  upon  us! 

Butler 
(Releasing  his  hold  on  John  Talbot^. 
What  was  that? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       157 

John  Talbot. 
A  summons  to  parley.    What  see  you,  Fenton? 

Fenton 

(At  the  shot-window). 

Torches  coming  from  the  boreen,  and  a  white  flag 
beneath  them.     I  can  see  the  faces. 

[With  a  cry. 
Look,  Jack!     A'  God's  name!     Look! 

[John  Talbot  springs  to  the  window. 

Driscoll. 
What  is  it  you're  seeing? 

Fenton. 

It  is 

John  Talbot 

(Turning  from  the  window). 

'Tis  Hugh  Talbot  comes!     'Tis  the  Captain  of  the 
Gate! 

Butler. 

With  them?    A  prisoner? 

John  Talbot. 

No,  no!     No  prisoner!     He  wears  his  sword. 

[Butler   snatches    up    his   piece   and   resumes 
watch. 

Fenton. 

Then  he'll  have  made  terms  with  them!    Terms! 


158       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Newcombe 
(Embracing  Driscoll^. 
Terms  for  us!    Terms  for  us! 

John  Talbot. 
I  told  ye  truth.     He  has  come.     Hugh  Talbot  has 
come. 

\^Goes  to  door. 

Hugh  Talbot 
(Speaks  outside). 
Open !    I  come  alone,  and  in  peace.    Open  unto  me ! 

John  Talbot. 
Who  goes  there? 

Hugh  Talbot 
(Outside). 
The  Captain  of  the  Gate! 

[John  Talbot  unbars  the  door,  and  bars  it 
again  upon  the  entrance  of  Hugh  Talbot. 
The  latter  comes  slowly  into  the  room.  He 
is  a  man  in  his  late  thirties,  a  tall,  martial 
figure,  clad  in  much  worn  velvet  and 
leather,  with  sword  at  side.  The  five 
salute  him  as  he  enters. 

Hugh  Talbot 
(Halts  and  for  a  moment  surveys  his  followers). 
Well,  lads? 

[The  five  stand  trembling   on   the  edge   of  a 
nervous  break,  unable  for  the  moment  to  speak. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       159 

Newcombe. 
We  thought — we  thought — that  you — that  you 


[^Breaks  into   childish  sobbing. 
Fenton. 
What  terms  will  they  grant  us,  sir? 

John  Talbot. 
Sir,  we  have  held  the  bridge. 

Hugh  Talbot. 
You  five 

John  Talbot. 

Bourke  is  dead,  sir,  and  Tregarris,  and  Langdale, 
and — and  James  Talbot,  my  brother. 

Driscoll. 
And  we've  had  no  water,  sir,  these  many  hours. 

Hugh  Talbot. 
So!     You're  wounded,  Phelimy. 

Driscoll. 
'Tis  not  worth  heeding,  sir. 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Kit!    Kit! 

[At   the   voice   Newcombe   pulls  himself  to- 
gether. 
A  light  here!    Dick,  you've  your  pouch  under  your 
hand? 


i6o      THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Fenton. 
*Tis  here,  sir. 

\_Offers  his  tobacco  pouch. 

Hugh  Talbot 

(Filling  his  pipe). 

Leave  the  window,  Myles!    They've  promised  us  a 
half  hour's  truce — and  Cromwell's  a  man  of  his  word. 

Newcombe 
(Bringing  a  lighted  candle). 
He'll  let  us  pass  free  now,  sir,  will  he  not? 

Hugh  Talbot 
(Lighting  his  pipe  at  the  candle). 
You're  not  afraid,  Kit? 

Newcombe.  , 

I?    Faith,  no,  sir.     No!     Not  now! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Sit  ye  down,  Phelimy,  lad!    You  look  dead  on  your 
feet.    Give  me  to  see  that  arm! 

[As  Hugh  Talbot  starts  toward  Driscoll, 

his  eye  falls  on  the  open  keg  of  powder.    He 

draws  back  hastily,  covering  his  lighted  pipe. 

Jack  Talbot !    Who  taught  ye  to  leave  your  powder 

uncovered,  where  lighted  match  was  laid  ? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       i6i 

Butler. 
My  blame,  sir. 

[Covers  the  keg. 

John  Talbot. 
We  opened  the  keg,  and  then 


Fenton. 

Truth,  we  did  not  cover  it  again,  being  somewhat 
pressed  for  time. 

l^The  five  laugh,  half  hysterically. 

Hugh  Talbot 

(Sitting  by  fire). 

And  you  never  thought,  maybe,  that  in  that  keg 
there  was  powder  enough  to  blow  the  bridge  of  Cashala 
to  hell? 

John  Talbot. 
It  seemed  a  matter  of  small  moment,  sir, 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Small  moment!  Powder  enough,  put  case  ye  set  it 
there,  at  the  stairhead — d'ye  follow  me? — powder 
enough  to  make  an  end  of  Cashala  Bridge  for  all  time 
— aye,  and  of  all  within  the  Gatehouse.  You  never 
thought  on  that,  eh? 

John  Talbot. 
We  had  so  much  to  think  on,  sir. 


i62       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Hugh  Talbot. 

I  did  suspect  as  much.  So  I  came  hither  to  recall 
the  powder  to  your  minds. 

Driscoll. 

We  thought 

[Butler  motions  him  to  be  silent. 
We  thought  maybe  you  would  not  be  coming  at  all, 
sir.    Maybe  you  would  be  dead. 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Well?  What  an  if  I  had  been  dead?  You  had 
your  orders.  You  did  not  dream  of  giving  up  the 
Bridge  of  Cashala — eh,  Myles  Butler? 

Butler 
(After  a  moment). 
No,  sir. 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Nor  you,  Dick  Fenton? 

Fenton. 

Sir,  I— No! 

Hugh  Talbot 

(Smoking  throughout). 

Good  lads!  The  wise  heads  were  saying  I  was  a 
stark  fool  to  set  you  here  at  Cashala.  But  I  said:  I 
can  be  trusting  the  young  riders  that  are  learning  their 
lessons   in   war   from   me.      I'll   be  safe   putting   my 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       163 

honor  into  their  hands.     And  I  was  right,  wasn't  I, 
Phelimy  Driscoll? 

Driscoll. 

Give  us  the  chance,  sir,  and  we'll  be  holding 
Cashala,  even  against  the  devil  himself! 

Fenton. 
Aye,  well  said ! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Sure,  'tis  a  passing  good  substitute  for  the  devil  sits 
yonder  in  Cromwell's  tent. 

Newcombe 
(With  a  shudder). 
Cromwell ! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Aye,  he  was  slaying  your  brother  at  Drogheda,  Kit, 
and  a  fine,  gallant  lad  your  brother  was.  And  I'm 
thinking  you're  like  him.  Kit.  Else  I  shouldn't  be 
trusting  you  here  at  Cashala. 

Newcombe. 
I — I Will  they  let  us  keep  our  swords? 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Well,    it's   with   yourselves   it   lies,   whether  you'll 
keep  them  or  not. 


i64       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Fenton. 

He  means — ^we  mean — on  what  terms,  sir,  do  we 
surrender  ? 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Surrender  ?     Terms  ? 

John  Talbot. 

We  thought,  sir,  from  your  coming  under  their 
white  flag — perhaps  you  had  made  terms  for  us. 

Hugh  Talbot. 
How  could  I  make  terms  ? 

Newcombe. 
Captain ! 

[At  a  look  from  HuGH  Talbot  he  becomes 
silent,  fighting  for  self-control. 

Hugh  Talbot. 

How  could  I  make  terms  that  you  would  hear  to? 
Cashala  Bridge  is  the  gate  of  Connaught. 

John  Talbot. 
Yes. 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Give  Cromwell  Cashala  Bridge,  and  he'll  be  on  the 
heels  of  our  women  and  our  little  ones.  At  what 
price  would  ye  be  selling  their  safety? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       165 

Driscoll. 
Cromwell — ^when  he  takes  us — when  he  takes  us 

Newcombe. 
He'll  knock  us  on  the  head! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Yes.  At  the  last.  Your  five  lives  against  our 
people's  safety.     You'd  not  give  up  the  bridge? 

John  Talbot. 
Five?    Our  five?    But  you — you  are  the  sixth. 

Fenton. 

You  stay  with  us,  Captain.  And  then  we'll  fight — 
you'll  see  how  we  shall  fight. 

Hugh  Talbot. 

I  shall  be  seeing  you  fight,  perhaps,  but  I  cannot 
stay  now  at  Cashala. 

[Rises. 

,  Driscoll. 

Ye  won't  be  staying  with  us? 

Butler 

(Laughing  harshly). 

Now  on  my  soul!  Is  this  your  faith,  Hugh  Talbot? 
One  liar  I've  followed,  Charles  Stuart,  the  son  of  a 
liar,  and  now  a  second  liar 


it)6       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot 
(Catching  Butler's  throat), 
A  plague  choke  you! 

Hugh  Talbot 

(Stepping  between  JoHN  Talbot  and  Butler^. 

Ha'  done,  Jack!  Ha'  done!  What  more,  Myles 
Butler? 

Butler. 

Tell  us  whither  you  go,  when  you  turn  your  back 
on  us  that  shall  die  at  Cashala — you  that  come  walk- 
ing under  the  rebel  flag — that  swore  to  bring  us  aid — 
and  have  not  brought  it!  Tell  us  whither  you  go 
now! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Well,  I'm  a  shade  doubtful,  Myles,  my  lad,  though 
hopeful  of  the  best. 

Butler. 

'Tis  to  Cromwell  you  go — you  that  have  made  your 
peace  with  him — that  have  sold  us ' 

Driscoll. 

Captain!  A'  God's  name,  what  is  it  that  you're 
meaning? 

Hugh  Talbot. 

I  mean  that  you  shall  hold  the  Bridge  of  Cashala — 
whatever  happen  to  you — whatever  happen  to  me 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       167 

Fenton. 
To  you?    Captain  Talbot! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

I  am  going  unto  Cromwell — as  you  said,  Myles.  I 
gave  my  promise. 

Driscoll. 
Your  promise? 

John  Talbot. 

We — have  been  very  blind.  So — they  made  you 
prisoner? 

Hugh  Talbot. 

Aye,  Jack,  When  I  tried  to  cut  my  way  through  to 
bring  you  aid.  And  they  granted  me  this  half  hour 
on  my  parole  to  come  unto  you. 

John  Talbot. 
To  come 

Hugh  Talbot. 

To  counsel  you  to  surrender.  And  I  have  given 
you  counsel.  Hold  the  bridge!  Hold  it!  Whatever 
they  do! 

Driscoll. 

Captain!  Captain  Talbot!  God  of  Heaven!  H 
you  go  back — 'tis  killed  you'll  be  among  them! 


i68      THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Hugh  Talbot. 
A  little  sooner  than  you  lads?    Aye,  true! 

Fenton. 
They  cannot!    Even  Cromwell 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Tut,  tut,  Dick !    It's  little  ye  know  of  Cromwell. 

John  Talbot. 
Then — you  mean 

Hugh  Talbot. 

An  you  surrender  Cashala,  we  may  all  six  pass  free. 
An  you  hold  Cashala,  they  will  hang  me,  here  before 
your  eyes. 

[Driscoll  gives  a  rattling  cry. 

Butler. 
God  forgive  me! 

Hugh  Talbot. 

You  have  your  orders.     Hold  the  bridge! 

[Turns  to  door. 

John  Talbot 
(Barring  his  way). 
No,  no!    You  shan't  go  forth! 

Fenton. 
God's  mercy,  no! 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       169 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Are  you  stark  crazed? 

Fenton. 
You  shall  stay  with  us. 

John  Talbot. 

What's  your  pledged  word  to  men  that  know  not 
honor? 

Hugh  Talbot. 

My  word.    Unbar  the  door,  Jack.    Why,  lad,  we're 
traveling  the  same  road. 

Fenton. 

God!     But  we'll  give  them  a  good  fight  at  the  last. 
[Goes  to   the  shot-window. 
Take  up  your  musket,  Kit. 

Newcombe. 
But  I — Captain!    When  you  are  gone,  I — I 

Hugh  Talbot. 
ril  not  be  far.    You'll  hold  the  bridge? 

John  Talbot. 

Aye,  sir. 

Butler. 

We've  powder  enough — you  said  it,  sir, — laid  there 
at  the  stairhead,  to  blow  the  bridge  to  hell 


I70      THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Aye,  Myles,  you've  hit  it! 

[Holds  out  his  hand. 

Butler. 

Not  yet,  sir! 

Hugh  Talbot. 
Hereafter,  then.    God  speed  you,  lads! 

John  Talbot. 
Speed  you,  sir! 

[All  five  stand  at  salute  as  Hugh  Talbot  goes 

out.    In  the  moment's  silence  upon  his  exit, 

John  Talbot  bars  the  door  and  turns  to 

his  comrades. 

You    have— Hugh    Talbot's    orders.      Take    vour 

pieces!     Driscoll!    Newcombe! 

[Obediently  the  two  join  Fenton  at  windows. 
Butler! 

Butler. 
Aye!     We  have  Hugh  Talbot's  orders. 

[Points  to  powder  keg. 

John  Talbot. 
Are  you  meaning 

Butler. 
It's  not  I  will  be  failing  him  now! 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       171 

Fenton 
(At  window). 
God!     They  waste  no  time. 

John  Talbot. 
Already — they  have  dared 

Fenton. 
Here — this  moment — under  our  very  eyes! 

Driscoll. 

Christ  Jesus! 

[Goes  back  from  the  window,  with  his  arm 
across  his  eyes,  and  falls  on  his  knees  in 
headlong  prayer. 

John  Talbot. 

Kit!    Kit  Newcombe! 

[Motions  him  to  window. 

Newcombe. 

I  cannot!    I 

John  Talbot. 
Look    forth!      Look!     And    remember— when    you 
meet  them — remember! 

[Newcombe  stands  swaying,  clutching  at  the 
grating  of  the  window,  as  he  looks  forth. 

Lads! 

[Motions  to  Butler  and  Fenton  to  carry  the 

powder  to  the  stairhead. 


172       THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

The  time  is  short.    His  orders! 

[Driscoll  raises  his  head  and  gazes  fixedly 
toward  the  center  of  the  room. 

Fenton. 
Yonder,  at  the  stairhead. 

Butler. 
Aye. 

[Fenton  and  Butler  carry  the  keg  to  the 
door. 

Newcombe. 
Not  that!     Not  that  death!     No!     No! 

John  Talbot. 

Be  silent!  And  look  yonder!  Driscoll!  Fetch 
the  light!  Newcombe!  Come!  You  have  your 
places,  all. 

Driscoll. 

But,  Captain !  The  sixth  man — where  will  the  sixth 
man  be  standing? 

[There  is  a  blank  silence,  in  which  the  men 
look  questioningly  at  Driscoll's  rapt  face 
and  at  one  another. 

John  Talbot. 
Sixth? 

Fenton. 

What  sixth? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE       173 

Driscoll. 

The  blind  eyes  of  ye!     Yonder! 

[Comes  to  the  salute,  even  as,  a  few  moments 
before,  he  has  saluted  Hugh  Talbot,  living. 
[Newcombe  gives  a  smothered  cry,  as  one  who 
half  sees,  and  takes  courage.  Fenton 
dazedly  starts  to  salute.  Outside  a  bugle 
sounds,  and  a  voice,  almost  at  the  door,  is 
heard  to  speak. 

Voice  Outside. 
For  the  last  time :  will  you  surrender  you  ? 

John  Talbot 

(In  a  loud  and  confident  voice). 

No!     Not  while  our  commander  stands  with  us! 

Voice  Outside. 
And  who  might  your  commander  be? 

John  Talbot. 
Hugh  Talbot,  the  Captain  of  the  Gate!     The  light 
here,  Phelimy. 

[John  Talbot  bends  to  set  the  candle  to  the 
powder  that  shall  destroy  Cashala  Gate- 
house, and  all  within  it.  His  mates  are 
gathered  round  him,  with  steady,  bright 
faces,  for  in  the  little  space  left  vacant  in 
their  midst  they  know  in  that  minute  that 
Hugh  Talbot  stands. 

curtain 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 


THE  PEOPLE 

Basil  Tollocho^  Colonel  of  Horse  in  the  Imperial 
service 

Andreas  Bucquoi,  his  kinsman  and  captain-lieu- 
tenant 

Gerhard,  Count  von  Mandersperg,  in  the  service 
of  Saxe-Weimar 

Hugo  von  Mandersperg 

THE  PLACE 

A  little  village  in  Pomerania,  which  has  been  seized 
and  occupied  by  a  wing  of  the  Emperor's  vast  army, 
which  has  just  won  a  victory  over  the  forces  of  Saxe- 
Weimar 

THE  PERIOD 
The  latter  part  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

yf  S  the  fortune  of  war  has  ordained,  the  living- 
y^g  room  of  a  sober  burgher  dwelling  has  become 
the  quarters  of  Colonel  Basil  Tollocho. 
//  is  a  spacious,  dark  room,  with  dim  wainscot,  smoky 
plaster  above,  and  heavy  roof-beams.  A  heavy  door 
leads  to  the  village  street.  There  are  narrower  doors 
to  inner  rooms;  and  there  are  two  windows^  the  dia- 
mond panes  of  which  are  obscured  with  glistering  white 
frost.  The  room  is  furnished  with  a  great  porcelain 
stove  (stage  left)  in  which  is  a  roaring  fire,  a  settle  of 
dark  oak  before  it,  and  a  table  near  the  settle.  There 
is  another  table  (stage  right)  on  which  are  writing  ma- 
terials, cups  and  flagons,  and  a  brace  of  pistols  in 
holsters.  Against  the  wall  is  a  carved  chest  of  drawers. 
Beneath  the  windows  are  forms.  Beside  the  writing 
table  is  a  great  chair,  covered  with  a  shaggy  bearskin. 
Here  and  there  are  several  stools.  There  are  signs,  in 
this  burgher  interior,  of  a  military  occupation.  Saddle- 
bags and  a  saddle  are  cast  down  upon  the  floor.  Pieces 
of  armor — gauntlets  and  back  and  breast  pieces — rest 
on  a  form.  Across  the  settle  is  hung  a  heavy  military 
cloak.  On  both  the  tables  are  lighted  candles,  more 
than  half  burned  out.  The  whole  effect  of  the  room  is 
business-like  and  stern — a  conqueror's  quarters. 

The  time  is  four  o'clock  of  a  bitter  morning  in  Janu- 
177 


178         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

ary.  Never  for  a  moment  is  it  forgotten  that  outside 
is  bitter  cold.  The  fire  glows  in  the  stove.  The  frost 
on  the  windows  gleams  whitely.  From  time  to  time  A 
Sentinel,  in  a  long  Cossack  coat,  his  face  reddened 
with  cold,  is  seen  to  pass  the  windows,  in  the  outer 
dark. 

At  the  table  by  the  fire,  poring  upon  a  map  which  is 
unrolled  before  him,  sits  Basil  Tollocho.  He  is  a 
man  of  forty,  tall,  lithe,  dark,  with  close-cropped  beard 
and  mustaches,  and  short  hair,  which  is  slightly  grayed 
upon  the  temples.  He  wears  military  dress,  of  somber 
color,  but  good  fabric,  long  boots  with  spurs,  a  sword  in 
baldric,  an  officer's  scarf  of  silk.  Obviously  he  is  a 
commander,  every  inch  of  him,  both  of  himself  and  of 
other  men. 

After  a  moment  the  Sentinel's  voice  is  heard  out- 
side. At  the  sound  ToLLOCHO  lays  down  the  map  and 
listens. 

Sentinel 
(Without). 


Stand,  ho! 

A  friend ! 

The  word,  friend! 


BUCQUOL 

Sentinel. 


BUCQUOI. 

Pope  and  Emperor! 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  179 

Sentinel. 

Pass,   friend! 

[There  is  a  stamping  of  feet  at  the  very 
threshold,  and  BuCQUOi  enters  the  room. 
He  is  about  thirty,  a  competent,  ruthless  pro- 
fessional soldier,  lean,  alert,  keen-eyed.  He 
wears  the  dress  of  a  horse-captain,  and  over 
all  a  heavy  cloak,  to  which  clings  a  little 
rime  of  white  snow. 

Throughout  the  talk  that  follows  the 
Sentinel  on  his  beat  is  seen  to  pass  and  re- 
pass the  windows. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Turns  in  his  seat,  alert  and  interested). 
What  news,  Bucquoi? 

BUCQUOI. 

No  news,  sir,  yet,  of  him  you  seek— of  young  Von 
Mandersperg. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Drink  a  cup  against  the  cold. 

Bucquoi. 

I  thank  you,  sir. 

[Lays  off  his  cloak,  fills  a  cup  at  the  table,  and 
drinks  while  he  talks. 

ToLLOCHO. 

You  followed  the  last  clue? 


i8o         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

BUCQUOI. 

The  clue  that  led  to  Leslie's  camp?     *Twas  a  wild- 
goose  chase. 

TOLLOCHO. 

But  you  spoke  with  this  prisoner  of  Leslie's? 
BUCQUOI. 

Aye,  sir. 

ToLLOCHO. 

A  young  man,  and  a  gentleman,  'tw'as  said. 

BUCQUOI. 

True,  sir,  but  never  son  to  the  Count  von  Manders- 
perg. 

ToLLOCHO. 

How  know  you  that  ? 

BUCQUOI. 

This  young  man,  Leslie's  prisoner,  is  named  Kaul- 
bach,  not  Von  Mandersperg,  Ansel  Kaulbach. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Go  to !     A  name  is  easily  changed. 

BUCQUOI. 

Moreover,  he  was  not  taken  in  arms  against  us,  as 
runs  the  rumor  of  young  Von  Mandersperg. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  i8i 

TOLLOCHO. 

So !  That  is  to  the  point.  Tell  me,  then,  how  was 
Ansel  Kaulbach  taken? 

BUCQUOI. 

Within  our  lines,  masking  as  a  sutler's  boy. 

ToLLOCHO. 

A  spy,  eh? 

BUCQUOI. 

It  seems  so,  sir — scarcely  the  trade  for  the  son  of 
Count  von  Mandersperg. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Nay,  'twere  a  fit  trade  for  his  father's  son!  But 
young  Von  Mandersperg  was  openly  in  arms  against 
us.  I  cannot  doubt  that  story.  So  this  Kaulbach  is 
never  him  we  seek. 

[BucQUOi    takes   some   papers  from    his    coat 
pocket. 
What  have  you  there  ? 

BUCQUOI. 

Papers  in  cipher,  sir.  Leslie  took  them  from  Kaul- 
bach. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Suffer  me ! 

[Takes  papers. 


i82         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWxN 

BUCQUOI. 

Leslie  knows  your  skill  to  unravel  such  writings. 
And  he  would  not  hang  his  prisoner,  Kaulbach,  till  he 
be  assured  of  what  is  in  the  papers. 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  case  is  clear  against  the  prisoner,  is  it  not? 

BUCQUOI. 

So  it  would  seem.  But  Leslie  is  a  Scot  and  cau- 
tious. He  would  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt, 
until  these  papers  be  unriddled. 

TOLLOCHO. 

I'll  about  it. 

[Scans  papers  closely. 
No,    'tis    not    by    reading    crosswise.     A    knotted 
problem !     So !     So ! 

BUCQUOI. 

Under  your  favor,  sir,  I  begin  to  question  if  the 
tale  they  brought  you  can  be  true.  These  two  days  I 
have  scoured  the  camp.  If  young  Von  Mandersperg 
were  indeed  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  any  of  our 
people 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  tale  is  true.  The  Count  von  Mandersperg's 
son  is  somewhere  alive  within  our  lines. 

BUCQUOI. 

But  I  do  not  see  the  way 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  183 

TOLLOCHO. 

Nor  do  I  see  the  way  clearly.  I  do  but  know  that 
Von  Mandersperg's  son  will  be  delivered  unto  me  this 
hour.  Take  horse,  Andreas,  and  ride  to  our  south- 
ward line.  Boguslav  and  his  forayers  have  this  hour 
straggled  in  from  the  battle-field.  It  may  be  you  shall 
find  the  young  man  in  their  keeping. 

BUCQUOI. 

I'll  about  It,  sir. 

TOLLOCHO. 

You  have  made  it  known  throughout  the  host  that 
I  will  give  a  thousand  pistoles  to  the  man  that  delivers 
young  Von  Mandersperg  to  me  ? 

BUCQUOI. 

A  thousand  pistoles! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Well? 

BUCQUOI. 

'Tis  a  ransom  for  a  general,  sir.  And  this  man  is 
but  a  paltry  subaltern  of  horse. 

TOLLOCHO. 

He  is  the  Count  von  Mandersperg's  one  son.  To 
me  he  is  worth  a  general's  ransom.  Twelve  hundred 
pistoles — fifteen  hundred,  if  he  is  delivered  unto  me 
this  hour.     About  it,  kinsman!     The  time  is  short. 


1 84  THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

BUCQUOL 

Short,  sir? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Count  Gerhard  von  Mandersperg  will  be  my  guest 
this  hour. 

BUCQUOI. 

What!     The  Count  himself? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Aye,  sent  as  commissioner  to  treat  with  us,  touching 
the  ransoming  of  the  prisoners  we  made  in  the  battle. 
I  am  deputed  to  receive  him.  And  I  would  greet  the 
Count  with  his  one  son  standing  here  at  my  elbow — 
my  prisoner,  mine  to  deal  with  as  I  list.  The  time  is 
short.     Go  seek  in  Boguslav's  lines! 

BUCQUOI. 
I'll  ride  at  once,  sir. 

ToLLOCHO 

(Rising). 
Stay!    I  shall  have  further  need  of  you  at  dawn. 

BUCQUOI. 
I  am  ready,  sir. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Choose  you  sufficient  escort.  A  month's  leave  is 
yours. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  185 

BUCQUOI. 

I  thank 

TOLLOCHO. 

Wait!  You  shall  ride  south,  to  the  Turkish 
frontier,  and  you  shall  sell  into  the  service  of  the  gal- 
leys the  man  that  I  shall  deliver  unto  you. 

BuCQUOI 

(Not  shocked,   but  quite   honestly   surprised). 
The  galleys! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Well,  kinsman?  This  scruple  at  the  deed  is  new 
in  you. 

BUCQUOI. 

Faith,   'tis  a  thing  of  custom  with  me,   and  with 

most  of  my  fellows,  but  you Kinsman,  I  never 

knew  you  put  a  man  to  pain   for  sheer  wantonness. 
You  act  for  cause,  I  know. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Aye,  for  cause! 

BUCQUOI. 

Then,  for  kinship's  sake,  will  you  not  give  me  to 
know  why  you  would  thrust  this  young  man  living  into 
hell? 

TOLLOCHO. 

I  take  the  victor's  right  of  young  Von  Mandersperg, 
even  as  aforetime  his  father  took  the  victor's  right  of — 
of  another! 


iS6         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

BUCQUOI 
(After  a  moment). 
You  would  say,  sir  ? 

TOLLOCHO 
(Speaking  with  effort). 
I  have  no  son,  even  as  Von  Mandersperg  at  dawn 
shall  find  himself  without  a  son — worse  than  without  a 

son !     She  to  whom  I  was  new  wedded 

[Breaks  off. 

BUCQUOI. 

*Twas  Elisabeth  Waldstein,  of  Bohemian  stock. 

TOLLOCHO. 

What  further  do  you  know? 

BUCQUOI. 

She  perished  when  Mansfeld's  demi-devils  sacked 
the  Bohemian  convent  where  jou  had  placed  her  for 
her  safety  ere  you  rode  to  war. 

TOLLOCHO. 

No.  You  are  at  fault  there,  Andreas.  Her  body 
did  not  perish. 

BUCQUOI. 

What !    You  say  that  your  wife  escaped  ? 

TOLLOCHO, 

No!  I  say  that  she  died  months  later — the  play- 
thing of  Gerhard  von  Mandersperg. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  187 

BUCQUOI. 

His Kinsman!     And  your  wife! 

TOLLOCHO. 

A  common  story,  these  days !  But  she  was  a  soul  as 
white  as  any  lily — and  my  love! 

BUCQUOI. 

Von  Mandersperg — I  remember!  He  was  a  cap- 
tain then  in  Mansfeld's  band — the  band  that  sacked 
the  convent.     And  he 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  fortune  of  war  gave  her  into  his  keeping.  The 
fortune  of  war  held  me  a  prisoner  four  years  in  a 
Saxon  castle,  till  every  trace  of  her  was  lost.  Now  the 
fortune  of  war  gives  Von  Mandersperg's  son  into  my 
hands.  And  by  the  God  that  is  above  the  fortune  of 
war,  in  the  dark  of  the  dawn  Von  Mandersperg  shall 
say  with  me :  I  have  no  son ! 

BuCQUOI. 

Send  it  be  I  that  bring  him  to  you ! 

\^Snatches  up  his  cloak  and  starts  from  room. 

ToLLOCHO 

(Courteously). 
Stay!     Your  cloak.     'Tis  perishing  cold. 

BuCQUOI 

(Halts,  and  muffles  his  cloak  about  him). 
Faith,  yes,  and  colder  every  hour. 


i88         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

TOLLOCHO. 

So  ?  Then  bid  the  sentry  take  his  station  in  the  byre 
where  he  will  be  sheltered. 

BUCQUOI. 

But 

TOLLOCHO. 

Nay,  man,  'tis  for  my  dignity,  not  for  use,  that  he 
is  set.  The  camp  is  guarded  otherwhere,  and  well 
guarded.     Get  you  gone! 

BUCQUOI. 

I  will  be  here  again  before  the  dawn.  And  mark 
you,  I'll  not  come  alone! 

TOLLOCHO. 

I  trust  you,  kinsman. 

[BuCQUOl  salutes  and  goes  out.  His  squeaking 
footsteps  are  heard  receding  through  the 
hard-packed  snow.  From  this  point  the 
Sentinel  ceases  to  pass  the  window.  Tol- 
LOCHO  seats  himself  at  the  table  (right)  and 
spreads  out  before  him  the  papers  taken 
from  Kaulbach. 
Now  for  this  young  spy's  cipher.  H'm!  A  tanglet- 
code!     Will  this  serve,  perchance? 

\^As  ToLLOCHO  sits  poring  over  the  papers,  a 
white,  drawn  young  face  is  seen  for  a  mo- 
ment to  gaze  in  at  the  window,  eying  the 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  189 

fire,  not  Tollocho,  and  speedily  to  dis- 
appear. 
Ah!  Faith,  I  have  it.  There's  the  key  to  the 
cipher,  Leslie!  A  clever  spy,  this!  Our  lines  de- 
scribed— our  numbers — matter  fit  to  hang  a  dozen 
men!  To  hang — and  so  'tis  I  that  give  good-night  to 
Ansel  Kaulbach! 

\_Starts  to  write  out  the  translation  of  the 
papers,  and  then,  with  a  quick,  instinctive 
motion  snatches  up  a  pistol  and  turns  to 
the  door.  Very  faintly  is  audible  a  sound, 
as  of  a  numbed  hand's  stirring  the  latch. 
What's  here  ? 

\^The  door  is  pushed  inward.  Hugo  von 
Mandersperg  stumbles  blinking  into  the 
light,  closes  the  door  behind  him,  and  stands 
leaning  against  it  for  support.  He  is  a  lithe, 
dark  lad  of  fifteen,  with  long-lashed  gray 
eyes,  that  one  feels  instinctively  he  must 
have  had  from  his  mother.  He  is  white- 
faced,  and  very  nearly  outworn  with  sleep- 
lessness and  rough  handling.  He  wears  the 
disheveled  dress  of  a  cornet  of  horse — a 
soiled  and  torn  shirt,  sleeveless  doublet  of  a 
dull  reddish  hue,  breeches  of  the  same,  horse- 
man's boots.  A  bit  of  cord  is  bound  about 
one  wrist,  and  on  his  other  wrist  shows  the 
red  excoriation  where  the  cord  has  pressed. 
ToLLOCHO  rises  and  surveys  him,  in  half 
contemptuous  surprise. 
My  word! 


I90         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Hugo. 

Please!     If  you  will  let  me  to  the  fire— only  one 
minute — only  one  minute 

TOLLOCHO 

(Business-like,  and  with  no  great  compassion,  since  he 

is  long  accustomed  to  sights  of  pity,  goes  to  Hugo 

and,  lifting  his  limp  arm,  looks  down  at  the  tell-tale 

bit  of  cord). 

So!     One   of    Saxe-Weimar's   captured   subalterns, 

are  you? 

Hugo. 
If  you  will  let  me — have  but  one  minute 

ToLLOCHO. 

Whom  did  you  break  from? 

Hugo. 

Only  one  minute — ^before  you  hand  me  over  to  them 

— only  one  minute — and  the  fire 

[Staggers. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Who  has  never  put  a  man  to  pain  for  sheer  wanton- 
ness). 

Steady!     Sit  down  and  warm  you. 

[Catches  Hugo's  elbow  and  eases  him  down  on 
the  settle. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  191 

Hugo. 

I  had  not  thought — 'twould  take  so  long  to  die.  I 
wanted  to  die — when  I  found  I  couldn't  pass  the  sen- 
tries. I  thought  I  could  freeze  and  die  quickly — but 
it  took  so  long — so  long — and  I  saw  the  light  of  the 
fire — and  then — and  then 

TOLLOCHO 

(Meets  Hugo's  eyes.  Half  against  his  will,  and  to 
his  own  surprise,  he  takes  the  cloak  that  hangs  across 
the  settle). 

Put  that  round  you! 

Hugo 
(Blankly). 
Sir? 

TOLLOCHO 

(Flinging  the  cloak  round  HuGO^. 

Put  the  cloak  round  you — so !  You  can  sit  here  till 
the  guard  come  to  fetch  you. 

[^Goes  to  the  table  and  fills  a  cup. 

Hugo. 

The  guard  ?  It  does  not  matter — nothing  matters — 
if  only  I  can  be  warm  again! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Here!     Drink  this!     Drink  it!     All  of  it! 


192         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Hugo 

(Having  drunk). 

I  thank  you,  sir. 

[In  the  act  of  drinking,  the  cloak  has  slipped 
from  him. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Pull  up  that  cloak ! 

[As  ToLLOCHO  reaches  out  his  hand  to  adjust 
the  cloak,  Hugo  flinches  as  if  from  a  blow, 
I  have  no  thought  to  strike  you. 

Hugo. 
I — I  ask  your  pardon ! 

TOLLOCHO. 

So  you've  not  been  handled  over-tenderly,  these  last 
days. 

Hugo 

(Embarrassed  and  ashamed,  looks  down  and  tugs  at 
the  bit  of  cord  upon  his  wrist.) 

Fortune  of  vi^ar,  sir. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Hold  out  your  arm. 

[With  his  knife  he  cuts  away  the  cord. 
It  seems  they  vi'ould  not  take  your  parole. 

Hugo. 

I  could  not  give  it,  sir. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  193 

TOLLOCHO. 

Why  play  the  fool  ?    You  know  you  can't  escape. 

Hugo. 

I  must!  I  must!  It's  my  one  chance.  I  gnawed 
the  ropes,  but  I  couldn't  pass  the  sentries.  And  now 
it's  all  to  begin  again!  It's  all  to  begin  again!  My 
God!  Why  didn't  I  die  out  yonder?  Why  didn't 
I 

TOLLOCHO. 

Steady!  You're  old  enough  to  know  the  rules  of 
this  rough  game.  Content  your  captors  with  the  ran- 
som that  they  ask,  and  you'll  be  free  to  go  your  way. 

Hugo. 

I  can't  pay  ransom. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Eh? 

Hugo. 

I  tell  you  I  can't!  I  can't!  I  can't  ransom  my- 
self. They  tried  to  make  me  write  for  ransom  to  my 
father.  They  said  if  I  didn't — they'd  put  out  my  eyes. 
Do  you  hear?     They'd  put  out  my  eyes! 

ToLLOCHO. 

So,  so!  Well,  I  should  counsel  you,  write  to  your 
father. 


194         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Hugo. 

I  can't!  I've  left  him — forever!  I  won't  beg  of 
him — not  of  him !  Even  if  they  kill  me — however  they 
kill  me — I  can't  beg  of  my  father. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Try  your  other  kindred,  then. 

Hugo. 

There's  no  one — no  one,  I  tell  you — no  one  in  all 
the  world!     I  can't  ransom  myself — whatever  they  do 

to  me — whatever 

[Rises. 

Oh,  why  didn't  I  die?    Why  didn't  I 


[Blindly  turns  toward  the  door. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Grasping  Hugo's  arm). 

Sit  you  down! 

Hugo. 

Let  me  go!  I  pray  you!  As  if  I  hadn't  come  in 
here!  Let  me  go  out  again — into  the  cold!  I'll  have 
better  courage  this  time.  I'll  die  this  time.  Oh,  for 
.God's  sake!     Let  me  go!     Let  me  go!     Let  me  go! 

TOLLOCHO 

(Throughout  he  has  been  looking  down  into  HuGO's 
eyes). 

Who  are  the  men  whose  prisoner  you  are? 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  195 

Hugo. 
They're  going  to  blind  me! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Who  are  they? 

Hugo. 

'Tis  a  Greek  captain,  Corvinus,  in  Boguslav's  com- 
mand. Won't  you  let  me  have  this  one  last  chance? 
Won't  you  let  me  go  ? 

TOLLOCHO. 

At  what  figure  does  he  set  your  ransom? 

Hugo. 
But  I  can't  pay  it!     I  can't 

TOLLOCHO. 

At  what  figure? 

Hugo. 

One  hundred  pistoles.  Won't  you  give  me  this  one 
chance  ?     It's  my  eyes,  I  tell  you  I     My  eyes ! 

ToLLOCHO. 

Perhaps  your  eyes  are  worth  a  hundred  pistoles. 
You  will  consider  yourself  my  prisoner,  on  your  parole. 
Sit  down! 

[Hugo  sinks  down  again  upon  the  settle.     Tol- 
LOCHO  returns  to  the  table  and  sits  to  write. 
If  I  let  you  go  unransomed,  you  will  of  course  prom- 
ise me  never  again  to  bear  arms  against  the  Emperor. 


igb         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Hugo. 

But  you  don't  mean  you  will  ransom  me  and — ^and 
let  me  go — unransomed — let  me  go — free? 

TOLLOCHO. 
I  think  it  probable. 

Hugo. 

Free  ?    And  you  mean  it !     I — I 

TOLLOCHO. 

There's  naught  to  say.     Rest  silent!     And  sleep,  if 
you  can. 

Hugo. 

I  haven't  dared  to  sleep,  sir — till  this  hour. 

[Rests  his  folded  arms  on  the  table  by  the  settle, 
and  lays  his  head  heavily  upon  them. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Writing). 

So,   so!     To   Captain   Corvinus:   To   give   him    to 

know    that    his   prisoner,    Cornet What's    your 

name,  lad? 

Hugo 

(Drowsily). 
Hugo. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Hugo  what  else? 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  197 

Hugo. 

Hugo  von  Mandersperg. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Von  Mandersperg! 

lAfter  a  moment. 
Did  I  hear  you  aright  ?     Who  is  your  father  ?  , 

Hugo. 

Gerhard,  the  Count  von  Mandersperg. 

[Falls  asleep. 

TOLLOCHO. 

Von     Mandersperg — aye!     The     boy,     a    prisoner 
among  Boguslav's  men !     His  boy!     His! 

[Goes  to  Hugo's  side. 
Let  me  look  on  you!     Asleep,  eh?     So!     His  son! 
[BuCQUOl  comes  again  into  the  room. 
You,  Andreas? 

BUCQUOI. 

Good  tidings,  sir !     Young  Von  Mandersperg  is 

TOLLOCHO. 

Yonder  is  Von  Mandersperg's  son. 

BUCQUOI. 
Here?     How  came  he 

TOLLOCHO. 

He  brolce  from  his  captors.     He  came  to  me,  of  all 
men  in  this  vast  camp.     I  knew  that  he  must  come. 

[Sits  again  at  table. 


i9»         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

BUCQUOI. 

The  hand  of  God  is  in  it ! 

TOLLOCHO. 

God  or  the  devil !     Well !     Can  you  ride  this  hour  ? 

BUCQUOI. 

Southward,  you  mean  ? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Yes,  to  the  Turkish  frontier,  with  Von  Manders- 
perg's  son.     This  hour ! 

BUCQUOI. 

This  hour?    But  Von  Mandersperg  himself  has  not 

yet  seen 

TOLLOCHO. 

He  shall  hear.  That  is  enough.  Come!  Come! 
I'm  wearied  of  this  business.  Mount  your  men  and 
ride  forthwith. 

BUCQUOI. 

I  shall,  sir. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Whilst  I  write  out  this  cipher,  that  shall  hang  Les- 
lie's spy.  Wait!  Take — him  with  you — now.  I 
have  no  more  to  say  to  Von  Mandersperg's  son.  Take 
him  from  my  sight.     At  once ! 

[Bends  over  his  papers^  determined  to  lose  him- 
self in  them. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  199 

BUCQUOI 

(Goes  /o  Hugo  and  shakes  him  roughly). 

Come,  sirrah!     Waken!     Up  with  you!     Wake,  I 
say! 

Hugo 

(Starts  up,  half  dazed  with  sleep,  with  a  frightened 
cry). 

Ah !     Let  me  go !     Let  me  go ! 

[As  he  comes  to   himself,   he  sees  ToLLOCHO 
and  crosses  swiftly  to  his  side. 
Thank  God!    Thank  God!     I  thought  that  I  had 

dreamed  you!     I  thought  that 

[/«  the  silence  he  hears  his  own  shaken  voice, 
and  at  the  sound  controls  himself. 
I — I    ask   your   pardon.      I   was  half  asleep.      I'm 
sorry,  sir. 

BUCQUOI. 

Enough  of  talking!     Come,  Von  Mandersperg! 

ToLLOCHO 

(With  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  writing,  determined  not 
to  look  at  HuGOJ. 

You  are  to  go  with  Captain  Bucquoi. 

Hugo. 

You're   sending  me   back   this   hour   to   mine   own 
c.arop?     Faith,  sir,  you're  better  than  your  word! 


200         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

BUCQUOI. 

Aye,  he  keeps  his  word.     March  out! 

TOLLOCHO 

(Writing). 
Go! 

Hugo. 

But  won't  you  let  me — since  you  wouldn't  let  me 

say,  "  I  thank  you  "  ere  I  slept — ^won't  you 

[He  holds  out  his  hand,  standing  quietly,  with 
his  intent  eyes  on  ToLLOCHO.  There  is  a 
moment's  silence.  Tollocho's  pen  wavers, 
but  he  still  writes  on,  without  glancing  at 
the  boy. 

BUCQUOI. 

Come! 

[BuCQUOi  lays  a  hand  on  Hugo's  shoulder. 
Obediently  HuGO  goes  with  him  toward 
the  door,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes  still  upon 
ToLLOCHO.  When  he  has  almost  reached 
the  threshold  Tollocho,  unable  to  bear 
more,  dashes  down  his  pen  and  rises. 

Tollocho. 

Wait! 

[With  a  quick  stride  he  goes  to  HuGO  and  al- 
most fiercely  snatches  him  out  of  BuCQUOl's 
hold. 

You  will  not  ride  southward,  Andreas. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  201 

BUCQUOI. 

You  alter  your  purpose? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Yes. 

BUCQUOI. 

You  remember  what  befell,  sixteen  years  ago? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Is  he  to  blame  for  what  befell  sixteen  years  ago? 

Hugo. 

You  mean,  sir 

ToLLOCHO. 

I  mean — you  shall  go  free,  as  I  promised. 

Hugo. 
I 

TOLLOCHO. 

You  have  no  call  to  thank  me.     Go  in  yonder.   Have 
your  sleep  out  in  safety.     Go ! 

Hugo. 

As  you  bid,  sir. 

[Bewilderedj  he  goes  obediently  into  an  inner 
room. 

BUCQUOI. 

But  'tis  Von  Mandersperg's  son! 


202         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

TOLLOCHO. 

What  voice  had  he  in  the  choosing  of  his  father? 

[Takes  papers  and  money  from  the  table. 
This  letter  and  this  money  to  Corvinus.     I  ransom 
young  Von  Mandersperg  of  him. 


Aye,  sir. 

And  this  to  Leslie. 


BUCQUOI. 
ToLLOCHO. 


BUCQUOI. 

The  translation  of  the  cipher  papers  that  were  taken 
from  Kaulbach? 

ToLLOCHO. 

Aye.     The  death  warrant  of  the  spy,  Ansel  Kaul- 
bach, condemned  by  those  same  papers.     About  it! 

BUCQUOI. 

Aye,  with  speed,  sir. 

[As  BuCQUOi  turns  to  the  door,  there  is  heard 
without  the  creak  of  horse-hoofs  in  the  snoic. 
He  glances  out  at  the  window. 
In   good  time!     Colonel,   'twill  be  the  Count  von 
Mandersperg  is  dismounting  at  your  door. 

ToLLOCHO. 

Gerhard  von  Mandersperg! 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  203 

BUCQUOI. 
And  you  will  give  him  back  his  only  son? 

TOLLOCHO. 

I  do  not  see  my  way  clear,  but  this  I  see  clear.  I 
must  keep  the  word  that  I  pledged  to  that  lad — my 
word  to  that  lad! 

[Von  Mandersperg  comes  into  the  room.  He 
is  a  man  of  Tollocho's  own  age,  but 
stockier,  fairer,  of  a  more  northern  type. 
A  powerful,  cold  man,  by  no  means  a  de- 
bauched sensualist.  He  is  fully  armed, 
richly  dressed,  in  military  fashion,  and 
wrapped  in  a  heavy,  furred  cloak. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
I  speak  to  Colonel  ToUocho? 

TOLLOCHO. 

He  is  your  servant,  Count  von  Mandersperg.  About 
your  mission,  Captain. 

[BucQUOl  salutes  and  goes  out. 

Will  you  sit,  Count? 


Von  Mandersperg. 
'Tis  a  cursedly  cold  morning. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Pouring). 
A  cup  of  wine? 


[Sits  by  fire. 


204         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Von  Mandersperg 
(Taking  the  proffered  cup). 
My  thanks!     You'll  drink  with  me? 

TOLLOCHO. 
Hardly. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Eh? 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  Emperor  may  choose  the  man  for  whom  I  pour. 
I  choose  for  myself  the  man  with  whom  I  drink. 

[Sits  at  table. 

Von  Mandersperg. 

By  that  I'd  know  you,  if  by  nothing  else.     You  are 
Basil  ToUocho. 

TOLLOCHO. 

And  my  wife  was  Elisabeth  Waldstein. 

VoN  Mandersperg. 

So!     'Tis    ten    years    since    we    last    encountered, 
Colonel. 

TOLLOCHO. 

You  came  then  under  a  flag  of  truce,  even  as  now. 

VoN  Mandersperg. 

And  you  spoke  some  words  which  you  have  not  yet 
made  good. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  205 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  game  is  not  played  out,  however,  Count.  You 
have  a  son,  I  believe? 

Von  Mandersperg 
(Quickly,  startled). 
My  son?     What  of  my  son? 

TOLLOCHO. 

He  served  in  the  army  of  Saxe-Weimar,  which  we 
routed  three  days  agone — served   as  cornet  of  horse, 

and 

Von  Mandersperg 

(Steady  and  reassured). 

As  cornet  of  horse  ?     My  son  ?     Ah,  I  see.     Yes. 
What  then? 

TOLLOCHO. 

And  he  is  now  a  prisoner. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
A  prisoner  in  your  hands,  this  son  of  mine? 

ToLLOCHO. 

You  judge  me  rightly. 

VoN  Mandersperg. 

And  you  think  to  refuse  my  proffers  of  ransom  ?  You 
think  to  torture  me  by  torturing  this  boy?  You 
think 


2o6         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

TOLLOCHO. 

I  think  I  should  waste  words  to  talk  with  you,  un- 
der a  flag  of  truce.  As  for  this  boy  of  yours,  I  shall 
do  by  him  even  as  I  promised. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
'Twas  so  I  read  you. 

TOLLOCHO. 

As  I  promised.     No,  you  would  not  understand. 

Von  Mandersperg. 

Well  enough  I  understand  that  this  is  a  different 
ending  than  you  purposed  to  your  tragedy. 

TOLLOCHO. 

God  knows,  a  different  ending! 

Von  Mandersperg. 

I  have  small  skill,  it  seems,  to  play  the  part  you  had 
assigned  to  me.  You  have  this  son  of  mine?  Good! 
Come!  What  next?  The  strapado  for  him?  The 
rack?  You  see,  I  sit  unmoved.  My  word,  Tollocho, 
you  should  have  better  shaped  your  tragedy! 

[BuCQUOl  enters,  in  hot  excitement. 

BUCQUOI. 

Colonel!  Colonel  Tollocho!  Here's  luck — luck 
of  the  devil's  own!  A  curse  on  Leslie!  The  lad  is 
dead! 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  207 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Excellent  well  devised! 

TOLLOCHO. 

The  lad?     What  do  you  mean? 

BUCQUOI. 

Aye,  the  lad  you  sought — young  Von  Mandersperg! 

ToLLOCHO. 

Von  Mandersperg! 

Von  Mandersperg. 
My  cue  for  frenzy? 

BUCQUOI. 

Leslie's  prisoner — 'twas  young  Von  Mandersperg  in- 
deed— and  Leslie  hanged  him. 

VoN  Mandersperg 
(JVith  satisfaction). 
Hanged?     A  dog's  death! 

ToLLOCHO. 

Leslie's  prisoner?     But  he  was 

BUCQUOI. 

At  the  last  gasp  he  did  confess  himself  Von  Man- 
dersperg. He  hoped  to  save  his  neck  thereby,  but 
when  Leslie  saw  the  writing  tha£  you  sent 


2o8         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Von  Mandersperg 

(Rising  eagerly). 

What!  A  writing  that  you — that  you  had  sent, 
Tollocho  ? 

BUCQUOI. 

Lesh'e  hanged  him  out  of  hand.  The  devil's  luck! 
A  swift  death  that  snatched  him  from  us — and  through 
you  yourself — through  you ! 

Von  Mandersperg. 

So !  He  is  dead,  this  son  of  mine,  through  you,  Tol- 
locho— you!  You've  given  him  a  dog's  death,  this  son 
of  mine,  for  my  sake!  You  pine  for  tragedy,  and  I'll 
not  play  it?    Play  it  yourself,  man! 

Tollocho. 
What  do  you  aim  at? 

Von  Mandersperg. 

This  boy — this  son  of  mine  you  slew  for  my  sake — 
who  was  this  boy?  Tell  me!  Whose  son  was  he? 
Who  was  his  mother? 

Tollocho. 
His  mother?    Why  do  you  ask  me? 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Because  his  mother  was  Elisabeth  Waldstein. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  209 

TOLLOCHO. 

Elisabeth!     Her  child! 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Yes.     And  his  father 

TOLLOCHO. 

I  see  it!  God!  'Tis  your  son  by  her — your  base- 
born  son  that  Leslie  hanged!  Yours — and  Elisabeth's ! 
Elisabeth's — and  slain  through  me!     Almighty  God! 

Von  Mandersperg. 

No!  Not  mine!  And  not  base-born!  Lawfully 
begotten  in  young  wedlock.  His  father  was  the  hus- 
band of  Elisabeth  Waldstein. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Rising). 
What  do  you  say?     Elisabeth — my  wife 


VoN  Mandersperg. 
Your  wife — and  your  own  son ! 

TOLLOCHO. 

My  son !     She  bore  my  son — and  I — and  I 

[^Reels  where  he  stands. 

VoN  Mandersperg. 

Yes,    yours,    Tollocho,    yours!        Reared    as    my 
natural  child.     I  planned  to  strike  you  through  him — 


210         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

you  that  she  loved — you  to  whom  she  clung,  for  all  I 
held  her  body — I  planned  to  strike  you 

TOLLOCHO. 

My  son  that  I  have  slain ! 

ISinks  on  a  chair  by  the  table. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
He  balked  my  plans,  the  young  whelp!  He  ran 
from  me,  but  faith  of  man!  I  could  not  have  shaped 
it  better  than  it  has  fallen.  Your  son — your  own — and 
you  have  given  him  a  dog's  death,  as  mine — your  only 
son! 

ToLLOCHO. 

Elisabeth !    Our  son ! 

BUCQUOI 
(Thrusting  in  between  the  two   men). 
Aye,  Count,  but  we  hold  this  other  living  in  our 
hands. 

Von  Mandersperg 
(Contemptuously  ) . 
What  other? 

BUCQUOI. 

You  have  yourself  a  son,  I  believe. 

VoN  Mandersperg. 
Aye,   and   a   lad   too   clever   to  stumble   into   your 
clutches!     Not  like  this  young  thickhead  Tollocho  you 
have  hanged. 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  211 

BUCQUOI. 

Are  you  so  sure?  For  all  his  cleverness  we  have 
him  prisoner,  this  young  Von  Mandersperg. 

Von  Mandersperg. 

Von  Mandersperg?  You  fool!  My  lad  does  not 
bear  his  own  name  when  he  goes  upon  a  mission. 

BUCQUOI. 

Not  his  own  name  ?  But  sure,  this  Is  your  son !  A 
young  cornet  of  horse 

Von  Mandersperg. 

Seek  you  another  prisoner,  friend,  ere  you  strive  to 
fright  me!  My  son  is  no  hothead  young  subaltern — 
no  horseboy  like  this  brat  of  yours,  ToUocho — this 
Hugo  that  you've  hanged. 

TOLLOCHO 

(Starting  up). 
Hugo!     Father  of  mercy!     You  said — Hugo? 

Von  Mandersperg. 
You  have  your  tragedy!     Enjoy  it,  man! 

ToLLOCHO. 

Hugo!  The  boy — with  her  own  eyes  that  looked 
upon  me!  Hers!  And  I  would  have  sent  him — I 
would  have  sent  him My  son !     My  son ! 


212         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Aye,  your  own!     Your  own! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Pitiful  God !     I  held  my  hand  in  time ! 

[Goes  to  the  door  to  the  inner  roow. 

Hugo!     Hugo!     Dear  God!     H  I  had  let  him 

Hugo! 

Von  Mandersperg. 

Hugo!     What  madness 

[Sleepily  and  a  little  dazed  HuGO  comes  into  the 
room. 

Hugo. 
You  called  me,  sir? 

TOLLOCHO 

(His  hands  on  Hugo's  shoulders). 
Look  on  me !     Aye,  her  son !     My  son  I  almost  had 
sent  living  into  hell ! 

[Draius  the  boy  to  him. 

Von  Mandersperg 

(Speaking   with    difficulty,   like    one   whose    throat    is 

shriveled  and  dry). 

Then — who  is  he  that  Leslie  hanged  this  hour? 

BUCQUOI. 

^Evilly  exultant  as  was  Von  Mandersperg  a  mo- 
ment before). 
A  clever  lad  who  bore  the  name 


THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN  213 

Von  Mandersperg. 
You  devil!     Speak! 

BUCQUOI. 

The  name  of  Ansel  Kaulbach. 

Von  Mandersperg 

(Sits  in  chair  by  the  table,  where  the  papers  still  are 
outspread). 

You  see — you  do  not  fright  me.     I  laugh!     I 

What  paper's  this?     What  hand? 

[Snatches  up  a  paper  from  the  table. 
God! 

BUCQUOI. 

His  papers — Kaulbach's  papers.  You  know  the 
hand?     You  know  the  hand? 

Von  Mandersperg. 
My  boy! 

BUCQUOI. 

If  you  still  doubt,  come  out  with  me!  The  ground 
is  frozen  hard.  His  grave  is  not  yet  dug.  Come  out 
and  see  his  face — the  face  of  this  hanged  spy! 

TOLLOCHO. 

Peace !     The  man  has  lost  his  only  son. 

Von  Mandersperg. 
Your  pity?    Hell's  last  jest!    You  pity  me! 


214         THE  DARK  OF  THE  DAWN 

TOLLOCHO 

(To  Hugo;. 

Take  you  that  cloak  and  come  with  me. 

[Hugo  wraps  the  cloak  about  him. 

BUCQUOI. 

Whither,  kinsman? 

TOLLOCHO. 

Tc    offer    thanks — thanks    that    my    Elisabeth    was 
strong  this  hour  to  save  our  son ! 

[ToLLOCHO  pushes  open  the  door.  It  is  seen 
that  the  dawn  is  just  breaking.  In  the  east 
is  a  faint  red  glow,  and  a  rosy  light  shines 
on  the  snowy  roofs  of  the  village.  He  turns 
to  Hugo. 
Come — my  son !  It  is  dawn.  We  can  see  our  way. 
[ToLLOCHO  passes  out  with  his  arm  about 
Hugo's  shoulders.  Bucquoi  in  the  door- 
way watches  them  go  into  the  dawn.  At' 
the  table,  under  the  pallid  candlelight.  Von 
Mandersperg  sits  crouching,  with  his  head 
upon  his  arms. 

CURTAIN 


1871 


